


i <3 u

by cubedmango



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Christmas, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Year, at least my attempt at it, but it's mostly for humor, lots of swearing, no beta we die like half the universe, this is the product of me writing garbage at 1 am everyday for three months straight, very very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 01:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cubedmango/pseuds/cubedmango
Summary: Suddenly the doorbell rings, and Steve's first immediate thought isI'm tipping this pizza guy a hundred fucking dollars, so he ambles over to the door, humming some shitty, sappy song, with his wallet in hand, and opens it.Instead of the sight of Pizza Hut’s beautifully intricate box and an exhausted delivery boy tired of his existence, he finds his neighbor, 917, standing in front of him, with a nervous grimace instead of his trademarked shit-eating grin, his leg bouncing like he's ready to bolt any damn second.“Uh, hey.” says James, really, really lamely, and Steve's second immediate thought isI'm not lettinghimcrash on my couch, no fucking way.





	i <3 u

**Author's Note:**

> look this fic is a damn mess but it's my damn mess and i'm proud of it. took me three months but i finished it on time for the new year. yay
> 
> never written for this ship/fandom before so i'm kinda scared of posting this??? eh whatever
> 
> anyways hope you enjoy!

 

 **bucky:** _SHIT_

 

Steve finishes placing his order for some pizza, still moping over his failed attempt at cooking dinner and the horrible state of his poor kitchen, and turns his attention to the extremely urgent text on his phone.

 

 **bucky:** _got locked out of my apartment. fuck_

 **bucky:** _what do i dooo_

 **bucky:** _help me o great steve, A Functioning Adult_

 

He puts his face in his hands and tries not to laugh at his friend's misery. He doesn't try hard enough, because within seconds he's quietly giggling over the texts. Of _course_ Bucky would get himself into a situation like this—he's a dumbass like that. It _was_ through him being a dumbass that the two had started talking, though, when Bucky was absolutely and thoroughly smashed one night, and detailed his oddly specific need for pumpkin spice cologne in a text he’d meant to send his friend Clint, but accidentally sent to Steve instead. Steve told him he should just shower in Starbucks’ coffee, and Bucky said it was a good idea. The morning after, Steve asked if he'd actually tried it, Bucky sent him The Finger, and they began talking from that day onwards.

 

 _Maybe Bucky being a dumbass isn't really_ that _bad of a thing,_ he thinks, and immediately squashes that thought because _no_ , he's not crushing on his wrong-number-stranger-turned-friend who he's never even seen the face of, absolutely not, shut up.

 

Derailing that dreaded train of thought, Steve thinks about what he, as A (Barely) Functioning Adult, would do if he were in Bucky's shoes.

 

 **steve:** _Stay at a motel?_

 **bucky:** _i've got like five dollars, pal_

 **bucky:** _wallets inside too, probably making out with my keys_

 

Steve smirks, and texts back.

 

 **steve:** _Getting more action than you, at least._

 **bucky:** _shaddup_

 **bucky:** _any more ideas, genius?_

 **steve:** _Crash at a friend’s?_

 **bucky:** _no ones in town. they all left me behind. traitors_

 **steve:** _Family?_

 **bucky:** _not around._

 

 _Okay,_ thinks Steve, as his brain quickly eliminates ideas one after the other, _no money, no contact, phone’s probably about to die—bad situation, but he's bound to live near a few people though, right?_

 

 **steve:** _Ask a neighbor if you can crash at theirs then?_

 **bucky:** _what_

 **bucky:** _no_

 **bucky:** _no way_

 **bucky:** _i dont even know any of them_

 **bucky:** _well i know one of em but ive kinda been a huge asshole to him so he probably hates my guts_

 **steve:** _It's just one night. I'm sure you two can put aside your differences for that long._

 **steve:** _Besides, I'm out of ideas and my food's coming soon. I'm eating and then I'm going to sleep_

 **bucky:** _...traitor_

 

Steve looks back at his laptop to check where his dinner is. It's arriving in ten minutes, and his stomach growls, angrily, he assumes, at having to wait just ten minutes more. Steve briefly wonders if he'd help out any of his neighbors if they got locked out, even the more douche-ier ones, and settles on an _eh, probably_.

 

 

His phone buzzes after a minute of inactivity.

 

 **bucky:** _okay fine im doing it_

 **bucky:** _if he says no im having you personally pick me up from wherever the fuck you live and letting me sleep on your couch_

 **steve:** _Yes, sir._

 **steve:** _You can cry on my shoulders and vent about traitors while I enjoy my dinner_

 **bucky:** _yeah yeah. you and your food_

 

Suddenly the doorbell rings, and Steve's first immediate thought is _I'm tipping this pizza guy a hundred fucking dollars_ , so he ambles over to the door, humming some shitty, sappy song, with his wallet in hand, and opens it.

 

Instead of the sight of Pizza Hut’s beautifully intricate box and an exhausted delivery boy tired of his existence and delivering pizza at ten at night, he finds his neighbor, 917, standing in front of him, with a nervous grimace instead of his trademarked shit-eating grin, right hand tugging down tight at his hoodie's left sleeve, and his leg bouncing like he's ready to bolt any damn second.

 

“Uh, hey.” says James, really, really lamely, and Steve's second immediate thought is _I'm not letting_ him _crash on my couch, no fucking way_. He glances behind the man, checking to see if he secretly delivers pizza and happens to have Steve's order behind his back, because that's somehow all that's on his mind—blame his hunger, not him.

 

“James.” Steve responds, much flatter than the first time they’d met, a month ago—James just having moved in, and Steve being a good, friendly neighbor—trying not to look shocked or disappointed, and not failing miserably for once, but not as lamely as the other man, and because he's not actually an asshole, continues, “Did you need something?”

 

“Yeah, um,” starts James, and _wow_ , he's fumbling, he looks flustered, his somewhat-long, dark hair flying away wildly, his blue eyes darting between Steve's face and the floor, and his cheeks dusted pink—and if he wasn't such a bad neighbor, Steve would've probably been falling heels over head for the man right this moment, but he _is_ , so Steve doesn't even think twice about it—”Look, I know I haven’t exactly been the most pleasant person around, but I _really_ need your help right now.”

 

Then Steve asks, “Locked out of your apartment and need somewhere to sleep?” as a joke, with the straightest face he can muster up, because, well, it's happening to Bucky right now and he thinks it's absolutely hilarious. James’ eyes widen in shock.

 

“How'd you know?” he asks back. Steve tries his very best to look like he's not freaking out inside.

 

“Lucky guess,” Steve replies truthfully, because it really _was_ , but now he's having a _what the fuck am I secretly a psychic_ moment while having to painfully keep his face as stoic as possible. It's extremely difficult.

 

“Come in.” offers Steve after a short moment, less as a polite gesture and more because it's ten pm, the beginning of December, he's wearing shorts like a fucking idiot, and he's _freezing_ , obviously.

 

The two shuffle inside as James says, “Thanks a bunch.” Steve hurriedly retrieves a spare pillow and one of his several blankets, placing them on the sofa for whenever he wants to sleep, and goes back to his laptop and his pizza delivery. Five more minutes, reads the display, and his stomach not-so-gently reminds him that it's absolutely starving.

 

He looks back at his neighbor, who's standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room, still clutching his hoodie, looking at something on his phone. Then he looks back up at Steve, somewhat nervous, like he's a mildly dangerous spider, or something, and asks, “Mind if I use your charger?”

 

“Nah.” replies Steve, and turns to his laptop. Three more minutes—he wonders if he's ever been _this_ hungry before in his life.

 

 

His phone buzzes from the pocket of his shorts, which he should really replace with something warmer, to be honest. He checks the text.

 

 **bucky:** _*hacker voice* IM IN_

 **bucky:** _i cant believe this_

 

And Steve thinks _this is weird_ , because he just let James, his irritating-as-shit-but-not-really neighbor, who got stuck outside, into his house, and then Bucky, who's in pretty much the same situation, got his neighbor to let him in. _Probably a coincidence, right?_

 

 **steve:** _That's great_

 **bucky:** _it really fucking is_

 **bucky:** _and he didnt even say anything. hes just like 'ok cool come in’_

 **bucky:** _is all forgiven? wow this is a new development_

 **bucky:** _thanks tho steve. you really are a genius_

 **bucky:** _dont have to freeze out there alone on a park bench now_

 

Steve tries to imagine James having to sleep on a park bench. He would laugh, except he _wouldn't_ , because it's a horrible mental image, and he's not cruel like that.

 

 **steve:** _Another satisfied customer of A Functioning Adult™ service_

 **bucky:** _12/10 would use again_

 

Steve turns to Pizza Hut's glorious website. It's arriving any second now. _This better be the best damn pizza I've ever eaten_ , thinks Steve.

 

 **bucky:** _also uh this is kinda weird but_

 **bucky:** _he somehow knew i got locked out?_

 

Steve stares at his phone.

 

 **bucky:** _i dont know if my face clearly said 'hey i left my keys inside and accidentally locked the door’ or something but..._

 **bucky:** _he said it was a ‘lucky guess’ but now im wondering if ive been living near a telepath this whole time_

 

 _It's me_ , he thinks, I'm _the one who said ‘lucky guess’. What the fuck?_

 

 **steve:** _Strange._

 **bucky:** _dont be cryptic man_

 **steve:** _You sure you weren't just talking loudly to yourself outside and he happened to hear you?_

 **bucky:** _real funny but nah_

 

His doorbell rings, again, and this time he walks straight up, pays for the pizza and tips, and walks back to the kitchen, box in hand. Bucky sends another text in the meantime.

 

 **bucky:** _anyways im hungry af and my stomachs gonna kill me so ill probably go sleep like real soon_

 

And because suddenly he's not that hungry anymore, and _James_ might really be _Bucky_ and might really be _hungry af_ , Steve asks in the direction of his living room, “Want some?”

 

James looks up from his cocoon on the couch, eyes a little tired and movements slow, “Yeah, thanks.”

 

Steve readies two plates and places two slices on each. He walks over to the couch with one plate and hopes James likes the most boring pizza of all time—plain cheese with no toppings whatsoever. The man accepts it with a small smile.

 

(Steve thinks he looks amazing. Steve wants to see that smile again. Steve's about to have a goddamn _heart attack_.)

 

Since he's not suffering enough, apparently, and the universe can't let him stay in denial, apparently, Steve gets a message as soon as he gets back to the kitchen and takes a seat on a barstool.

 

 **bucky:** _ok nvm_

 **bucky:** _he gave me two whole slices of pizza_. _my favorite type too_. _a literal angel_

 **bucky:** _lookie_

 **bucky:** [Attached image: img_120218_223614.jpeg (3.30 MB)]

 **bucky:** _kinda feel really bad about being the asshole neighbor now_

 **bucky:** _..._

 **bucky:** _i think i love him???_

 

 _But I think I love_ you, thinks Steve, just like a schoolgirl having her first ever crush on the jock who plays football and never shows up for class—pathetic, but also somewhat Steve's type—and then adds _, and also, I'm_ him _, so please love me?_

 

He tries to link the two in his mind—his witty, humorous, and great online friend is the same person as his shitty neighbor who he's had to ask to stop playing the guitar at midnight everyday for two weeks straight. The lines don't seem to join, and for a moment Steve's content with keeping them two separate entities in his mind and going about with his life. Except he kind of has a huge crush on the former, who is the same as the latter, and therefore he has a crush on his neighbor who he's never talked to outside of complaints and disagreements until now.

 

He can't exactly ignore that.

 

He's willing to do it for one night though, because he’s got his pizza and now he's ready to go sleep and face his problems the next day, like he always does. He stuffs his face with cheesy, unhealthy bread until his gut is satisfied and he's tired of the taste, barely two slices in. He then collects the other plate from the coffee table in the living room, and shoves the two plates in the dishwasher.

 

 _Done_ , he thinks, _now, time to ignore my feelings and go the fuck to bed._

 

“I'm going to sleep now,” he announces, not quite facing his neighbor, not quite sure he's even listening, “You can use the spare washroom whenever. If you need something then let me know, okay?”

 

He washes his hands, brushes his teeth, takes several deep breaths, gets himself a glass of water and turns to head back to his room, but is interrupted by a cough.

 

“Steve?” James—no, _Bucky_ —peers at him from behind the couch (most of his face covered up by the damn thing, unfortunately, not that Steve wanted to see his smile again, or anything), “Thanks a lot, again, seriously. I'll be outta your hair first thing in the morning, promise.”

 

“It's no problem,” he manages to say, somehow, though the attempt is terrible and his voice actually cracks for the first time since high school— _how fucking embarrassing_ , he prays it went unnoticed—“Good night.”

 

“G’night, Steve.”

 

 

 **bucky:** _steve?_

 **steve:** _Sorry. having dinner_

 **steve:** _I'll be best man at the wedding?_

 **bucky:** _oh yeah. your food_

 **bucky:** _and maybe._

 

 

As Steve drifts to sleep, contemplating his entirely uneventful day and the extremely eventful twenty minutes just now, he has a singular, extremely important thought.

 

He is so, _so_ fucked.

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

For the first few seconds after he wakes up, Steve blissfully forgets about the night before. He contemplates falling back to sleep, because it's colder than the Arctic out there and it’s too-fucking-early-for-anything o'clock in the morning. He could potentially sleep in the whole day, since it's Sunday and it's snowing heavily outside anyway. He likes that idea. He really likes that idea.

 

And then his phone buzzes from the bedside, and all his wishful thinking is interrupted by him remembering who exactly he let into his apartment for the night.

 

He stumbles out of bed, tangling his feet in the covers and barely avoiding tumbling down to the floor. When he turns on the screen of his phone, there's a flurry of texts from Bucky, all sent in the span of the last thirty minutes.

 

 **bucky:** _whats the etiquette for the morning after you sleep on your neighbors couch_

 **bucky:** _really tempted to run away but landlords gonna take ages to show up bc of the snow_

 **bucky:** _could really use A Functioning Adult service rn, steve_

 **bucky:** _okay ill make him some breakfast and then fuck off somewhere_

 **bucky:** _i dont have anywhere to go though. this is gonna be a problem_

 **bucky:** _jesus_

 **bucky:** _dude has like no ingredients_

 **bucky:** _i wonder if he lives off of pizza and takeout_

 **bucky:** _i mean i relate but. yknow._

 **bucky:** _if i fuck this up im moving to the countryside where no one can find me_

 **bucky:** _should i wake him up for this_

 **bucky:** _i feel like i should. ill do it after im done_

 

If he'd somehow not been convinced that James is Bucky and Bucky is James by now, the sound of something sizzling on a pan and the smell of bacon and pancakes coming from outside his bedroom would've made Steve an immediate believer in the theory.

 

He shuts down all and any thoughts about Bucky and the whole situation, and scurries to his (luckily ensuite) bathroom, getting cleaned up and ready as quickly as possible. He changes into something warmer, and walks into the kitchen, doing his best impersonation of someone who just woke up.

 

He finds Bucky standing in front of the countertop, tapping away idly at his phone with his back to Steve while simultaneously expertly flipping away pancakes with his left (shining?) hand. For just a moment, Steve forgets that the man standing in front of him is the same person who’d constantly had music playing from his apartment—so loud, the other block could hear it—for an entire week. It'd taken the collective effort of everyone on Steve's floor to get him to stop, but he'd just switched to playing his really annoying electric guitar at night instead, which no one could do anything about, since it wasn’t as loud and only bothered the immediate neighbors. Steve doesn't want to remember the several nights he's asked for him to turn it down, only to get a cocky “Sure!” and the volume going back up within fifteen minutes.

 

Then he remembers, because _of course_ he does, and he's pissed, because online friend or not, this is the guy who's given him so fucking many sleepless nights and mind-numbing headaches, he'd lost count of how many times he really considered moving away just to get away from all this in the first week itself. He's about to step forward, the words _alright, bud, I think you've overstayed your welcome_ edging on the tip of his tongue, before Bucky turns around and gives Steve a sheepish smile, “Hi.”

 

His anger dissipates, the words dying in his throat, and Steve also realizes that this is the same guy who'd accidentally messaged Steve, and had still stuck around to talk to him every day for two months straight—falling into easy conversations, exchanging memes, and keeping him company at shitty parties and even shittier blind dates. This is the same guy who eventually started making his blind dates shitty, because he couldn't date someone when he already had a person in mind. This is the same guy who Steve may or may not be crushing on, _really_ badly.

 

He coughs, trying not to sound awkward, though his attempt was probably thwarted by the flush on his cheeks and his unusually squeaky voice, “Mornin’.”

 

He walks towards the kitchen, feigning curiosity as he glances to the pans behind his neighbor, saying nothing but eyeing him for an explanation, though he already knows exactly what's happening. He's probably being a little cruel. He doesn't care.

 

“I, uh,” Bucky starts, glancing at the stovetop and looking back at Steve, like he'd been caught doing something he really shouldn't have been, “I made breakfast. Hope you don't mind.”

 

“You shouldn't have.” Steve tells him, out of his customary politeness—though deep down, he's glad Bucky cooked, because his body's probably sick of the trash he's been stuffing himself with this past week instead of properly cooking—and when Bucky places a plate for him on the kitchen island, “Thanks, though.”

 

“Are you kidding?” he replies, almost incredulous, like he hasn't just saved Steve from the fate of eating the previous day's pizza, again, “You're literally harboring Public Enemy Number One, cap letters, and all, in your house. This is the least I could do, seriously.”

 

Steve opens his mouth to start the sentence _you're not a public enemy_ , before he looks back at his almost-outburst just then and remembers that he most definitely _is_. He doesn't say that out loud, though, and just gives Bucky a small smile before digging into his food.

 

“Also,” Bucky begins, as they both chew on the literal best bacon Steve has ever eaten, no exaggeration, “You should really buy some food besides takeout, just saying.”

 

“Will do, once I actually learn how to cook.” replies Steve, earning a snicker from the other man. They fall into comfortable silence after that, the clinking of cutlery and the occasional buzzing of Bucky's phone filling it, until they're both done eating.

 

 

“Right, so, I know I said I'd leave as soon as I can,” Bucky starts from his seat on the sofa, just as Steve's done doing the bare minimum with the dishes—throwing them in the dishwasher, “ _But_ it turns out mister landlord lives in the middle of nowhere and is gonna take ages to get here because of,” he gestures vaguely at the windows, outside of which they could see a swift burst of snow, “that. So—”

 

“No, I don't know how to pick locks, unfortunately, if that's what you're asking.” Steve quips, and Bucky laughs at that, “But you can stay a bit longer, if you wanna.”

 

His face falls a bit at that, and he hesitates before speaking up, “I don't want to impose, though.”

 

“Why, missing your guitar?” Steve asks before he can realize what he's said—not actually wanting to have brought up the object of his constant insomnia—and suddenly fears he's said something that's not even remotely funny. _Damn me and my weird humor_ , he thinks as he looks back his neighbor.

 

Bucky grins at him, nonetheless, “No, I'm not, absolutely not. What ever could’ve given you that idea? I only miss my keys and my laptop, thank you very much.”

 

“Right.” Steve says, with an involuntary smile— _he talks just like he texts, wow_ —and continues, “But seriously, you can stay. Watch Netflix, make yourself some popcorn, whatever. I'll be holed up in my room, working.”

 

“On a Sunday?” Bucky asks, curious.

 

“Freelance art. Don't exactly give myself days off.” He explains, though it's not the whole truth, because he usually takes the weekends off to socialize and do something besides staring at his computer screen for ten hours straight. He can't go outside, however, and he doesn't think he's prepared to spend hours sitting next to Bucky just yet. He could at least get some shit done, then.

 

Bucky gives him an understanding nod, “Alright. Thanks, again.”

 

 

Steve retreats to his room, retrieving his phone from his bedside table and settling on his desk. He sets up his graphic tablet, turns on his laptop, and checks his texts as the system boots on.

 

There's a text from Sam, apologizing for cancelling their lunch plan that day. Steve tells him not to worry about it, and suggests meeting up some other day when it's not practically hailing outside. Sam replies with a simple smiley emoji.

 

Then there's Bucky's texts.

 

 **bucky:** _are you still sleeping wtf_

 **bucky:** _this is just in: steve is officially in hibernation. we'll see him next in six months. hope is being lost fast. we must stay patient. he shall be back soon_

 **bucky:** _anyways_

 **bucky:** _angel neighbor liked the breakfast, i think_

 **bucky:** _hes letting me stay until the landlord gets here. im one lucky asshole_

 **bucky:** _and hes letting me use his netflix. this is a level 7 friendship interaction. i think all really is forgiven_

 

It's a little bizarre, Steve finds, seeing their conversations from Bucky's perspective. For a moment he wonders if he should just tell him right now.

 

He doesn't.

 

 **steve:** _Geez, made me worried I'd missed your wedding with all these texts._

 **bucky:** _HE RETURNS_

 **bucky:** _how could you ever think that. whats the wedding without my best guy_

 **steve:** _A wedding?_

 **bucky:** _youre a real smartass you know that?_

 **steve:** _I'm very well aware._

 **steve:** _How's Netflix and Chill going?_

 **bucky:** _oh my god shut up_

 **bucky:** _hes not even here anyway. working on some art thing_

 **steve:** _Oh. That's so sad. Day two of being locked out and your wallets still beating you at getting action_

 **bucky:** _SHUT UP G O D_

 

Steve is not blushing as he types all that. He is not. _Get out._

 

 **steve:** _K._

 **bucky:** _i hate you_

 **bucky:** _so fucking much_

 **steve:** _Say that the next time you need the functioning adult service, asshole. I dare you._

 

Steve thinks he hears Bucky laugh from the living room. He takes the victory.

 

 **bucky:** _fuckin smartass_

 **bucky:** _im watching parks n rec the dare will be acted upon later_

 

Not wanting to come in between him and the absolute masterpiece playing on the T.V. in the other room, Steve turns back to his work, picking up his pen and continuing where he left off.

 

 

The first break he gives himself is about an hour and a half later, and it's less to rest his hand and more to try and quell his frustration. He should've seen this coming, he knows, and he _really_ shouldn't be fazed at this point, he knows, but one look at the vague-as-shit email from the client and who-knows-how-many scrapped sketches later, Steve kind of regrets taking this whole thing up.

 

Shaking his head and sighing for the what's probably the billionth time that day, he shuffles back into the kitchen to get some water. Peering into the living room, he can see the show on the T.V. paused, and Bucky engaged in a conversation with someone on his phone.

 

“— _I told you_ , Jesus. Give me a few hours, I'll get it done,” his neighbor says, exasperated, “No, I don't have my laptop. I'm _not_ editing it on my phone, what the fuck, no way.” Bucky groans, running his hand through his hair, “Fuck, okay, don't tell Fury, but I got locked out of my apartment and can't get anything done, alright?” he pauses and looks at Steve, who's grabbing a protein bar from the fridge just to stick around longer, “Yeah, no, I'll be fine. _Shut up_ , shithead, I'm not—” he quickly looks away, with a frown and a slight flush on his face, and Steve wonders what that's all about, “I'll call you when I have my laptop again, Clint, go back to writing your love letters for Na— Okay, okay, fuck off, bye.”

 

Steve's half way through his snack when Bucky sets aside his phone and looks back towards the kitchen, bashful, “Sorry 'bout that.”

 

“'S fine,” replies Steve, because it really _is_ fine, a good distraction from the dreaded commission waiting for him back in his room, “Needed some entertainment anyway.”

 

Bucky huffs, dramatic and comical, “How dare you laugh at my misery?”

 

He actually laughs at that, “Because I'm in misery too?”

 

“Fair enough.” Bucky says, and then after a moment, “What's the source of your misery, if I may ask?”

 

“ _Hey, so we need this book cover done, and it has to be absolutely perfect, well, because,_ ” Steve trods over to the couch, imitating what he thinks the person behind the professionally vague emails from _Stark Publishers_ sounds like— _annoying_ —“but _we're not going to explain what we want. Have fun figuring that out as you exchange a thousand emails with us and stay as lost as ever._ ”

 

His neighbor—friend? are they friends now?—snorts at that and then laughs, loud (Steve absolutely does not like the sound of it a lot, shut your mouth), “Oh man, the pinnacle of the creative struggle— shitty clients.” Bucky then proceeds to pat Steve's shoulder solemnly, “My condolences.”

 

He smiles in return, but it falls just as fast because he can feel his headache coming back, carrying the threat of tears and exhaustion, and he's really, really tired, “Thanks for that, pal. Really helped.”

 

“Sure it did.” Bucky snickers, and adds before Steve can get back to his nightmare of a job, “Say, let me help, like, for real? I'm not really an artsy guy, but maybe I could do something. Show you a new perspective, or whatever, as thanks for letting me use your Netflix.”

 

“Alright.” Steve accepts, because what the hell, it's not like he'll make it any _worse_ , and in best case scenario he could actually get the damn thing done. The two enter his room, Steve mumbles _don't look at the mess, please_ , praying he ignores the odd little shelf in the corner, Bucky looks anyway, and Steve opens the mail and thumbnail sketch folder for him to see.

 

 

“So, book cover—” Steve starts, pulling up the infamous J.B.B.'s page on his browser, vaguely wondering if he’s seen it enough times to have learned its contents by now. He likes the guy well enough (a little more than regular people do, actually, to be honest, but it's not an obsession, it is _not_ ), when he's not pissy and frustrated, because he's a great author despite his mysterious identity, but given the circumstances, Steve thinks he's earned his right to be a little cynical, “for this guy.”

 

Bucky blinks, once, twice, “Right.”

 

“He's writing a new book— that's classified, by the way. Don't go around telling everyone, or I'm ending up jobless,” Steve explains, showing him the first _Captain America_ book, “Sequel to this one, except it's real edgy, and I can't do edgy, unfortunately.”

 

Bucky blinks again, and Steve asks, “Wait, do you even know who this is?”

 

“Um,” he says, “No.”

 

“Huh. He's a big name.” Steve mutters, “I guess you're not really the reading type, then?”

 

“Not into action, really.” Bucky explains, and leaves it at that.

 

“I get that. His books _are_ pretty great, though.” Steve responds, not really knowing why he's defending the person whose work is making Steve's life a personal hell right now, “Anyways, like I said, it's a lot darker. I sent all these sketches to the publishers, but apparently none of them fit their vision. At this point I'm seriously doubting they even know their own vision.”

 

Bucky coughs, “Right. So, explain the story?”

 

So Steve does, giving a short recap of _The First Avenger_ before moving on—throwing in his character sketches and scenery work to help illustrate what's going on. He finishes off with, “So that's the cliffhanger, and he walks away off to a soul-searching journey somewhere, while Cap contemplates his whole life, and stuff, just the usual.”

 

Bucky nods, “Totally understood all of that.”

 

“I'm not repeating it.” Steve declares, “So, think you can help?”

 

His friend—they _are_ friends, right, technically, with the whole texting thing?—gives him a pensive look, “I have some ideas.”

 

Bucky then goes on to explain some literary jargon—the black-and-white contrast, the foreshadowing, the star symbol—and Steve finally starts getting some proper ideas.

 

“You might wanna show the whole _hero organization is secretly bad organization_ thing, too. A reflection might be cool.” Bucky suggests, “It'll blow the people's minds once they're done reading.”

 

Steve hums, not taking his eyes off his new page of sketches as he incorporates Bucky's idea, “You sure know a lot about this whole writing thing.”

 

Bucky grins at that, “Perks of having a literature degree.”

 

“I thought literature's all about learning how to talk like Shakespeare.” Steve comments, Bucky snickers.

 

“And art's all about painting the Mona Lisa again, and again.” he replies. Steve scoffs dramatically.

 

“I'll have you know that painting is an artistic _masterpiece_ , and the great Leonardo da Vinci is an idol to all us aspiring artists with unrealistic expectations from ourselves.” Steve gushes. Bucky shakes with laughter from beside him.

 

“Great for you, but I'm not letting you slander my boy William here under any circumstances. His poetic work gave us point-two-three-something percent of our vocabulary, Steve, and one that describes me on a constant basis.”

 

“And that is?” Steve inquires, and quietly hopes the word is _free_ or _single_ or something along that line of thought. Don't judge him.

 

“Lonely.” Bucky says, deadpan, and the sheer unexpectedness of that has Steve laughing suddenly.

 

“No way,” he manages to get out in-between breaths, glancing over to his friend—they’re friends, fuck you—to find him looking a little surprised.

 

“What, him making that word,” Bucky asks, his lips turning upwards into a smile, “or me being lonely?”

 

“Both, I guess,” Steve turns back to his tablet, smirk on his face, resuming drawing Captain America's emo boyfriend-but-not-really and his emo makeup, “Thought you were the type to have nine-hundred friends on Facebook and party every other night.”

 

“Wouldn't really be playing that guitar everyone hates so much if I was out every other night.” Bucky says, shifting away from Steve's desk to spin on the swivel chair.

 

“Of course.” Steve nods his head, “I was starting to think you were starting a boyband in there.”

 

He stops spinning and looks right at Steve, contemplative, “That's a good idea, actually.”

 

“Make that happen and I'm moving to the countryside, forever.” Steve declares, because he genuinely would. A man needs his beauty sleep, even if it means he has to sacrifice his love. A man has his priorities. One does not scrutinize a man's priorities.

 

“Aw,” Bucky groans, “Even if I get you free tickets to the first concert?”

 

“Absolutely.” he says, with sheer conviction. Nothing can get in the way of him and his bed.

 

“Shame,” Bucky shakes his head, and opens his mouth to speak, before his phone starts ringing from his jeans’ pocket, “Shit, gotta take this. Sorry.”

 

As the man walks away with eyebrows furrowed and the phrase “Becca, _do not_ ask about that.”, Steve tries not to think about Bucky and his dumb guitar and his dumb smile and his own dumb feelings. He doesn't try hard enough.

 

 

When he emerges from his bedroom for a break for the second time, it's another hour later. Bucky didn't come back after his call, which is fine, totally, and Steve got to work on a few different variations of the cover sketches before feeling the need to stretch a bit.

 

“Bu— James?” Steve calls, when he can't see him anywhere immediately, and mentally kicks himself for almost messing up. He walks over to the living room to find his friend sprawled over the couch, with his arm over his face, fast asleep.

 

He's about to leave him to rest when his doorbell rings, just as he steps away from the living room.

 

“Is Barnes here?” asks the man on the other side when Steve opens his door, “James Barnes?”

 

 _His landlord_ , Steve reminds himself, “Yeah. I'll get him.”

 

He goes back to the couch, and shakes Bucky lightly, feeling bad for having to interrupt his sleep, “James,”

 

He whines, “ _What_ ,”

 

“Landlord's here,” Steve informs him, as Bucky sits up and rubs his eyes, “with the keys.”

 

“Oh,” he breathes, like he's forgotten he was supposed to be back in his own apartment, and not here. Steve doesn't know what to make of that. “Right.”

 

Bucky puts on his shoes, and grabs his phone before heading to the door, Steve on his trail. He talks a bit with the other man, before turning back to look at Steve, “Don't think I've thanked you enough for this, honestly.”

 

“Don't have to.” Steve tells him, “You did help me, too. Consider us equal?”

 

Bucky smiles at that, and Steve thinks he's about to say something when he hesitates, looking in the direction of his own flat, and then back at Steve, “See you around?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out. _See you at midnight, when I inevitably have to get you to shut your guitar up_ , Steve thinks, “Of course.”

 

Bucky walks away, keys in hand. Steve closes the door behind him.

 

There's no guitar at night.

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

The facts are these:

  1. It's 7:46 in the morning.
  2. Steve has had less than five hours of sleep.
  3. The aforementioned fact was caused by Steve's stubbornness, which had in turn caused him to work on the stupid book cover sketches until he deemed them acceptable enough to send to production team's head.
  4. Steve had stayed up until somewhere around 3:30 am.
  5. Steve is tired.
  6. It's 7:46 in the morning, someone is ringing Steve's doorbell, and Steve is so fucking _tired_.



 

For a moment, he considers leaving it be, burying his head further into his pillow. When he doesn't immediately fall back to sleep, like he totally should have, he considers grabbing the baseball bat stashed in his storage closet, before remembering that he gave it away to Sam for some reason he couldn't recall. _Bad_ _move, Rogers_ , he tells himself, and vows to keep the next potential-weapon he can get his hands on. Then, he considers preparing some starters for a don't-ever-fucking-wake-me-up-this-early speech, but the connections between his brain and mouth are severed, and he'd be lucky if he could get out even one single coherent sentence to whoever's outside.

 

The bell shrills again. Steve decides he'll deal with whatever maniac that's decided to show up on his doorstep—salesman, serial killer, social worker, whoever—in his pyjamas and with his bird's nest of a bedhead. You can't expect more than that from his poor, exhausted body. Leave him alone.

 

Steve grudgingly walks over to the door and opens it, channeling his best _leave me alone_ face. He can only hope his resting bitch face looks resting-ly bitch-y enough.

 

 

“Hi.” says James— _Bucky_ —Fucking Barnes, holding a cake, with his hair tied up into a not-so-atrocious man-bun and a plain black sweatshirt and jeans on, smiling at Steve like this is a perfectly normal thing that he just _does_ , at almost eight in the morning, no less. Steve's carefully prepared don't-give-a-shit expression bids goodbye, much to his dismay, and he spends a lot longer than he should looking back-and-forth between Bucky and the cake.

 

“What's—” he starts, voice high-pitched, before he clears his throat and remembers that conversations usually start with a greeting, “Hey. What's this?”

 

“A cake.” his friend states, smile not wavering a bit, “Dark chocolate.”

 

Steve stares at the shavings of chocolate garnishing the gateau instead of Bucky, “Who's it for?”

 

“I'm standing in front of your flat,” Bucky announces, like the host of those kids shows who has to tell the audience to find the important thing that's neon and glowing and practically the only thing visible. In his mind, Steve meticulously plans his skydive from his ninth-floor apartment to the concrete pavement below, “Take a guess, buddy.”

 

“Right, it’s me.” Steve realizes, with as little enthusiasm as possible, “Yay.”

 

Bucky shoves the platter into Steve's hands (or, Bucky just hands it to him normally, and Steve’s too strained to carry it), and says with a million-watt smile, “Hope you'll like it. I'm not a _great_ baker— pretty sure I spent longer on decoration than on making sure it's edible.”

 

Instead of _thank you_ or _that's so nice of you_ or _Jesus you can bake too please marry me_ , the following garbage comes out of Steve's mouth, “I can't eat this.”

 

Bucky's face falls, and Steve wonders if skydiving from the roof would be better instead, “Why not?”

 

“James,” he starts, “This is an entire cake.”

 

“It is.” Bucky replies.

 

“I can't eat an entire cake by myself.” Steve tells him.

 

“Not with _that_ attitude, you can't.” says his baker-friend, and Steve briefly wonders if Bucky's eaten a whole cake on his own—that sounds like something he would do—“How about this: We share, and if it's actually inedible trash, then I'll take all of it and save you the fate of dying from food poisoning. Deal?”

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees before his three brain cells can catch up, and he steps aside to let Bucky in. He saunters into the kitchen while Steve mumbles _I'll go get changed_ and excuses himself to his room.

 

Steve throws on a t-shirt and shorts in his hurry, telling himself he'll deal with the inevitable hypothermia later. He quickly turns on his phone, suddenly realizing he hasn't checked any of his texts in over half a day. There's a string of messages from Bucky, dated from an hour ago.

 

 **bucky:** _is it weird im still feeling bad_

 **bucky:** _oh. im back in my own humble abode btw_

 **bucky:** _forgot to tell you yesterday, sorry. catching up with work was a pain in the ass but i got it done_

 **bucky:** _angel neighbor was nice throughout the whole thing but now i feel like i should do smth for him too_

 **bucky:** _do you think he'll like pie_

 **bucky:** _or brownies_

 **bucky:** _okay i definitely dont have enough time for either of those_

 **bucky:** _time to prepare generic chocolate cake™_

 **bucky:** _ive made this a billion times but i still feel like im gonna mess up_

 **bucky:** _dont wanna kill angel neighbor after all his good deeds_

 

Steve hastily replies, and pockets his phone after setting it on silent.

 

 **steve:** _Did you give it to him yet?_

 

Returning to the kitchen, he finds Bucky shuffling through his cabinets for cutlery. Steve walks over and retrieves forks from the drawers while Bucky gathers two plates.

 

 

“Okay. Moment of truth.” Bucky mutters, as Steve finishes cutting himself a slice of the cake, “Don't judge me _too_ harshly.”

 

“I'm sure it's good.” Steve says—it has to be good, because Bucky made it, and anything Bucky makes is a goddamn miracle, he's learned. Then he stuffs his face with a rather large bite, tearing his eyes away from Bucky's unusually nervous face.

 

The truth is this: It's really fucking good—and that's not Steve's pining heart or sweet-tooth talking. It's objectively good. Scientifically good. A mathematically perfect cake. Steve hasn't studied either of those things since high school, but he knows his facts, and the facts are that he wants to eat this cake for the rest of his life. Fuck takeout, _this_ is where it's at.

 

“Am I allowed to cry?” he asks, having not even finished it yet, so it sounds more like _am I awwowed to cwy?_ He doesn't care.

 

Bucky winces, “That bad?”

 

“If I hear one more self-deprecating comment outta your mouth,” Steve says, already helping himself to another slice though he hasn't finished the one he already has, “I swear I'm gonna shove this entire cake in your face. Or, like, your half of it, because I'm absolutely eating my half.”

 

The other man visibly relaxes, silently cutting himself a piece of the masterpiece.

 

“Are you secretly a Master Chef?” asks Steve, real eloquent, “Own a seven-star restaurant? Make cakes for the queen of England?”

 

“None of those, unfortunately,” Bucky replies, lips tugging up into a smile, “Just your regular YouTube-tutored baker.”

 

Steve nods, taking a second to thank YouTube for helping him not burn down his apartment trying to cook, and also for teaching Bucky how to make the best cake he's eaten in his twenty-eight years of existence. He promises to turn Adblock off for whichever channel Bucky learned to make this cake from.

 

Steve suggests starting a bakery, because he has talent and Steve would spend all his money on his baked goods, even if no one else will and he has to go broke for it. Bucky appreciates his dedication and says he'll consider it once he eventually gets fired from his job. Steve wonders what he does for a living.

 

“What's the occasion?” he asks a bit later, genuinely curious, “Not that I don't appreciate cake for breakfast, but my birthday isn't until July.”

 

“Oh, you know,” Bucky waves his hand, “For letting me stay yesterday, and giving me pizza, and donating your Netflix, and not being an ass about any of it.”

 

 _Why would I be an ass?_ Steve almost asks, before his mind hits him with Bucky's nightly depressing E minor chords. He clamps his mouth shut, and then, “Thought we were equal.”

 

“I just made you some mediocre breakfast, though.” Bucky says, and Steve _really_ wants to slap him though _he's_ the one who made said breakfast. It was a really good breakfast, and he will not stand for anyone insulting it, even its own chef. His mess of emotions probably shows on his face, because suddenly Bucky's backing into the barstool sheepishly.

 

“You helped me with the book cover,” Steve adds, and Bucky looks up suddenly, like he'd forgotten about it. Weird.

 

He mumbles out, “Yeah, that.”

 

“Saved me from an all-nighter,” Steve tells him, imagining what he would've done the whole day if he was stuck with his old ideas—probably having a mental breakdown, yikes—“My hero.”

 

“You don't look like you've slept enough, though.” he points out. Steve really doesn't have the heart to tell him he was planning to sleep in until noon, before Bucky showed up with his bright smile and delicious cake. Steve doesn't regret getting out of bed now, though.

 

“I _did_ stay up until 3,” he confesses, “but at least I didn't send in absolute garbage like I did before. Or cry. That wouldn't have gone well.”

 

“Oh,” Bucky whispers, ducking his head and avoiding his gaze, and Steve wants to do nothing more than bash his own head against the wall repeatedly, “Sorry for waking you.”

 

“ _I_ should be the sorry one, honestly. I don't know what I've done to deserve this cake.” Steve manages to get out, though his brain is telling him to give his friend a bone-crushing hug and also maybe a completely-absolutely-unmistakably-platonic kiss on the lips, and also realizes that _he's_ being the ass this time, “Jesus, I didn't even thank you for it. _Thank you,_ seriously. This is probably the best cake I've eaten, like, ever. I would die for this cake, and that is a promise.”

 

Bucky's face lights up, and Steve doesn't even care that it’s eight in the morning and the sun is barely out, because _his_ sun is right here, keeping him warm, though he's probably already catching on fire from the force of his inconvenient blush, “Glad you liked it.”

 

Steve wishes time would just stop right that second, because he's a hundred-and-ten percent falling for Bucky's angelic smile, and he really wants to capture it somewhere—on a fresh sketchbook dedicated solely to his neighbor, or an entire wall in his apartment, or something. Don't call him dramatic.

 

 

Unfortunately, sadly, realistically, Bucky has other things to do besides sitting in Steve's shabby apartment and watching him eat, “I should get going.”

 

Steve nods, as if to say _of course, you're totally not breaking my heart by saying that_ , before the two stop to stare at the unfinished cake sitting on the counter.

 

He really can't finish it on his own, as much as he would like to, because he's just started out a new workout plan along with Natasha, and he can't go out and sabotage it _this_ early. Even if he does plan on finishing it alone, it would take him days, and eventually it would get bad and genuinely give him food poisoning. He _could_ give some of it to his friends, but for once, he feels selfish and wants to keep this to himself. He's earned it for his patience dealing with Bucky and his guitar and his texts and his feelings. He _has_.

 

“You should come by later,” he blurts out, before his face positively lights itself on flames and his mind automatically comes up with pathetic attempts to backtrack, or make it casual, or fix it, anything to stop the wide-eyed look Bucky's giving him, “To— to finish the cake.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky gives him a grin, one reminiscent of the ones Steve used to get, standing at 917’s doorway, asking for the volume to be turned down, for _God's sake_. Steve wants to crawl into a hole and never come out, “I’ll be there, then. And not at a crazy time, promise.”

 

“See you.” Steve says, as Bucky takes the seven steps to get to his own flat, just opposite Steve's.

 

Bucky smiles, “Bye, Stevie.”

 

Steve closes the door, and slumps against it, shoving his face into his hands, as if that would stop the unrealistic amounts of heat radiating from it.

 

Steve is not dying. He is _not_.

 

 **bucky:** _jfc steve that sounds so bad out of context_

 **bucky:** _and yeah. i did give him the cake_

 **bucky:** _at first he was like 'i cant take it’ and i was terrified_

 **bucky:** _thought he was allergic or hated chocolate or something_

 **bucky:** _but he just couldnt eat the cake by himself. so i offered to eat w him_

 **steve:** _Did he like it?_

 **bucky:** _yeah_

 **bucky:** _enough to die for it apparently_

 **steve:** _That's a little extreme._

 **bucky:** _no ones liked my food that much_

 **bucky:** _ngl i almost cried_

 **bucky:** _no ones allowed to be this nice. what the fuck. im pretty sure hes literally an angel_

 **steve:** _Does this angel happen to have a name?_

 **steve:** _Or do you just call him angel neighbor to his face too_

 **bucky:** _shush_

 **bucky:** _hes called steve too_

 **steve:** _Oh._

 **steve:** _I'm being replaced??? Bucky how could you_

 **bucky:** _ive dealt w your smart ass for too long_

 **bucky:** _but nah theres a distinction_

 **steve:** _Steve #1 and #2? which one am I? What's my ranking? I need to know for a friend_

 **bucky:** _sure bud_

 **bucky:** _theres no ranking_

 **bucky:** _youre best guy steve. hes angel neighbor- friend?- steve_

 **bucky:** _simple_

 **steve:** _That's exactly what someone ranking their Steves would say._

 **steve:** _I’m Hurt. and Betrayed. brb unfollowing blocking reporting_

 **bucky:** _i dare u_

 **bucky:** _ok ok gotta go. work calls. ttyl_

 **steve:** _Bye, traitor._

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

Bucky fulfills his promise, much to Steve's genuine surprise, and swings by later that day to eat Steve's shitty fried rice and his own majestic gateau for dinner. They have a pleasant conversation, Bucky insists he be called _Bucky_ , because they’re friends, and the only people calling him _James_ are his grandparents and his boss, and Steve's cooking is thoroughly roasted. Before they know it, the cake is finished and it's almost midnight. Bucky leaves Steve with a copy of his own fried rice recipe, and Steve pins it to his fridge, before seeing him off at the door.

 

They don't see each other after that. It’s absolutely fine. Steve is content enough texting him.

 

He's returning from his dinner with Peggy on Thursday when he finds a small crowd of four people gathered around the ninth-floor's hallway. Steve barely spares them a glance (not that it would've been useful, anyway, since it's pretty dark and he can’t make out their faces at all), and quickly retreats to his own apartment, praying whoever is hosting the assumed-house-party doesn't blast music all night. Steve has had enough of his share of that these past few weeks, and he really, genuinely needs to rest.

 

He checks his email, still finding no reply from _Stark Publishers_ , as expected, works a bit on his other commissions, surfs Tumblr thoughtlessly, eats Chinese takeout, and prepares to head to bed.

 

The doorbell rings. Steve doesn't want to get it.

 

He does, anyway.

 

 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky drawls out as soon as he sees him, giving him a drunken smile immediately, and Steve honest to God doesn't think he's ready to handle him smashed yet, “You gotta help me. Clint an’ Tasha’re bein’ gross, on my couch.”

 

“I, uh,” Steve stammers. _What the hell am I supposed to do?_ , he asks himself, wondering if he should just slam the door shut and avoid this whole situation altogether, “Should I get them out?”

 

“Just lemme stay here till they're gone,” Bucky slurs, “please?”

 

Steve lets him in, watching him stumble into the living room and flop onto his couch, face first. He can smell the alcohol lingering in his doorway. Bucky's _really_ drunk.

 

 _What should I do?_ he wonders again, with a slight panic all the way in his inner voice. He could just go sleep like he planned to, but he has to make sure Bucky doesn't get sick. He doesn't want his living room ruined, that's all. He takes out some medications and fills a glass of water, and sets them both on the coffee table, just in case.

 

He hovers around awkwardly, before Bucky looks up and asks, “Goin’ to sleep?”

 

“Dunno,” says Steve, “More worried for you, honestly.”

 

“'M sorry.” he replies, groggy, burying his head in the arm of the sofa, “Just keep botherin’ you.”

 

“It's alright,” that's only partially true, because Steve really does want to sleep, but he cares about Bucky, too, “I can stay up for a while.”

 

Slowly, Bucky rolls over, lying on his back instead of his stomach, and looks at Steve, “You're so nice. Too nice. Like— like an angel. Are you an angel? I wan’ the truth, Stevie.”

 

Steve tries not flush—he fails, very badly, “Not an angel. Just nice.”

 

“Don't believe you,” he mumbles. Steve settles down on the edge of his L-shaped couch.

 

He can obviously handle this. He’s got this.

 

 

Steve has been sitting for five minutes, mindlessly doodling away on his phone (not Bucky, just some sleeping figures, _totally_ ), when Bucky speaks up again, “We should tell each other a secret.”

 

“Uh, huh,” Steve looks up, wondering just where the hell that idea came from, “I'll go first, then. I used to be real tiny in high school, barely above five foot, I think.”

 

Bucky gives him The Look, which says what everyone else he's told this has said: _how the fuck?_ It’s an appropriate reaction, he thinks, because not many of his friends have known him since his school days, and so end up pretty confused at seeing his old photographs. Steve continues, “My own body didn’t like me very much, apparently.”

 

“How'd you get so— so buff, then,” Bucky asks, gesturing at all of Steve.

 

“Started going to the gym in college,” Steve explains, valiantly pushing the _buff_ comment out of his mind, “And my body suddenly realized it's not supposed to that small. I call it my _second puberty_.”

 

From his corner on the couch, Steve can see Bucky look at him from head to toe with slightly-glossy eyes, “Hm.”

 

“You go, now.” Steve passes on the mantle to his drunk friend, fully expecting to say something along the lines of _I have a girlfriend who I've been dating for seven years, and I plan on proposing to her next week_ , or _I actually don't enjoy being around you at all, and the only reason I'm here is because I don't wanna see my friends making out in my house._

 

“The guitar,” Bucky starts, and pauses to giggle at the sour look Steve _knows_ is involuntarily on his face—even mentioning _the guitar_ somehow does that—“First it was just me bein’ annoyin’— Sorry ‘bout that, by the way.”

 

“Apology accepted,” Steve mutters. He _has_ been doing better ever since the music stopped—he thought stopping it was Bucky's way of apologizing.

 

“So, at first it was me bein’ a shitty neighbor, 'cause I used to do it at my old place and no one bothered. Thought 'twas fine,” Bucky continues, and then stops for a few seconds, looking up at the ceiling, “I was gonna stop, I swear, but then you started showin’ up, and I kept playin’ just to see your face.”

 

 

_What?_

 

 

“What,” Steve manages to get out, almost adding an involuntary _the hell_ or _the fuck_ afterwards. Bucky keeps staring at the ceiling. Something really interesting must've caught his eye, like the cobwebs in the corner that Steve _still_ hasn’t cleaned yet—they made for good decorations in October, but now it’s two months later, and he should probably do something about them.

 

“Douche move, I know,” Bucky says, a near whisper, “Should’a stopped the first day you told me to. Sorry.”

 

This was _not_ how he expected to receive an apology for his two-plus weeks of insomnia.

 

Steve doesn’t reply. He wants to ask about the whole _see your face_ thing, so badly, because, well, _what in the actual fuck is that supposed to mean_ , but his voice refuses to cooperate, and Bucky looks like he's about to doze off.

 

 _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself, _I'll ask tomorrow_.

 

 

Thoroughly numbed by whatever that was that Bucky just said, Steve advances to drawing several question marks over his old drawings. He suddenly opens up his texts, itching to talk to someone about this and help him make sense of it. He's got no dignity to lose, anyway, because all his close friends know about his whole crush thing already, him having spilled liking Text Boy over a month ago (omitting Bucky's name from the conversations, of course, since he doesn't need his friends stalking him over every social media to have existed), and screamed about the whole Text-Boy-is-James revelation just a few days back.

 

He goes through his contacts. Sam is a definite no, because he would call Steve, laugh at him for five minutes straight, and then hang up. Peggy— maybe, though she tends to be over-protective to the point of it being scary. Natasha is also a maybe, but she never answers her texts at night, and Steve would've already asked Bucky, hopefully, by the morning. Scott is a hopeless man in the scene, Steve doesn't even want to try. Bruce is his best choice, but he has some huge science-y project going on, and Steve didn't want to disturb him. He knows the irritation, _very well_.

 

Steve is about to type the whole thing out in the group chat, willing to take whoever's advice he can get—regardless of quality or usefulness—when Bucky speaks up again, “Got 'nother secret.”

 

Steve almost jumps out of his seat at that. He hastily closes his phone and focuses on stabilizing his voice, “And— and that is?”

 

“I—” he starts, and for once Steve truthfully doesn't want to hear the words _like_ or _love_ or _you_ in a sentence, because his heart is weak and pathetic, always has been, and Bucky is _drunk_ , for fuck's sake. He stops, giving Steve another glance, this one shorter, “I'll tell you in the mornin’, when 'm sober.”

 

Steve briefly wonders how he's gonna fall asleep with all these goddamn mysteries circling his brain.

 

 

“Go sleep,” Bucky says, when Steve notices his own eyes fluttering shut every-so-often. He's about to get out an _it's fine I'll stay_ , before Bucky gives him a stern look, or what he thinks is supposed to be a stern look, anyway, “I'll be fine.”

 

“Right.” Steve gets up from the couch, eager to get away from this whole thing, and spend the entire night thinking about it, instead. He spares a look at Bucky's disheveled hair and messy clothes, “If you need something, just wake me up.”

 

“'Kay,” Bucky gives him a dopey smile, “Nighty.”

 

“Good night.”

 

 

 **bucky:** _sssteve_

 **bucky:** _stEvie_

 **bucky:** _stevester_

 **steve:** _Hey. Why are you up?_

 **bucky:** _i may be_

 **bucky:** _slightly drubk_

 **steve:** _Oh._

 **bucky:** _why are. u up_

 **steve:** _work._

 **bucky:** _coolio_

 **bucky:** _i was chillng at home_

 **bucky:** _made the mistake of calling. couple friends_

 **bucky:** _paired friends_

 **bucky:** _friends jn relationships_

 **bucky:** _and now theyrre doing the nasties in my house_

 **steve:** _Must be a fun sight._

 **bucky:** _not thereto see it_

 **bucky:** _bothering angle steve again for the night again_

 **bucky:** _speaking of_

 **bucky:** _i may have pissed him off_

 **steve:** _How so?_

 **bucky:** _i told him tht i was being an annnoyivg neighbor to see him_

 **bucky:** _dont think he was happy to hear i was basicaly messing w his sleep for no reason_

 **steve:** _You should talk to him about it in the morning. when you're less drunk_

 **bucky:** _i dunno_

 **steve:** _Explain yourself well. Apologize, properly_

 **steve:** _I'm sure he won't be too mad_

 **steve:** _Communication is important._

 **steve:** _Bucky?_

 

 

Steve tiptoes back into the living room a few minutes later to find Bucky softly snoring on the couch, phone long abandoned. He steals a quick glance at his exposed metal arm (which he _knows_ is a thing, but actively avoids looking at or talking about, because it's probably a sore topic, and he doesn't want to make Bucky uncomfortable), which is covering his eyes, and spends a little longer than he should looking at the soft exhale of air from his mouth. Just making sure he's not dead, obviously.

 

He smiles at the sight, covers his friend with the blanket that he hasn't removed from the couch's arm since he first showed up on Saturday, and connects his phone to the charger for him. He'll appreciate the full battery in the morning.

 

 _Tomorrow_ , he reminds himself.

 

 

Tomorrow arrives with a loud _thud_ against the floor, and an even louder “ _Shit!_ ”

 

Steve stirs from his sleep at the commotion, panic rising in his system, before he remembers— _it’s just Bucky._ He checks his phone to see that it's half past ten, which is odd, because he always gets up before nine, even without the alarm he sets up just in case. He was supposed to be at the gym an hour ago, but he's glad he slept well, at least, despite ruining his schedule. He sends a brief text to Natasha.

 

 **steve:** _Sorry for not being at the gym today. slept in somehow, really tired_

 **natasha:** _it's okay I didnt show up either_

 **natasha:** _horrible hangover_

 **natasha:** _I literally just woke up too lmao_

 **steve:** _Pls take care. what will I do without you_

 

 _That's a relief_ , he sighs, before getting out of bed and heading over to his living room to check up on his friend, “Bucky?”

 

Said friend is currently sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, chugging water at what Steve thinks is an extremely unsafe pace. Hearing Steve's voice, Bucky looks at him and then back at the glass of water, before doing a double take and swallowing quickly.

 

“Shit,” he repeats, dramatically, “Steve, I think I'm _dying_.”

 

Steve smiles, before crouching next to him, genuinely concerned, “You okay? How's the hangover?”

 

“It's alright,” Bucky replies. There's a slight flush on his face, and Steve wonders if he has a fever, or something—it _is_ getting pretty cold—“Won't be throwing up in your house _just_ yet.”

 

“You mean it's gonna happen eventually? Can't say I'm looking forward to that.” Steve jests, before checking him over for any injuries from his very deadly fall from the sofa. He gets concerned over small things, let him be, “You didn't hurt yourself, did you?”

 

“What?” asks Bucky, at which Steve eyes the couch, where he was sleeping, and then the floor, “Oh, I— I didn't. Don't worry.”

 

“Great.” Steve gets up, and almost continues the sentence with a _now explain whatever the fuck it was that you said last night, or so help me_. At seeing Bucky stumble weakly, however, he figures he could leave the topic be for a little longer.

 

Maybe a few days longer.

 

 

“Gonna kick 'em all out,” Bucky grumbles, when he's at his door, “I need better friends. Single friends.”

 

I'm _a single friend,_ Steve thinks, _that is head over heels for you. What in the world did you mean by_ see me _yesterday?_ Instead, he waves his hand, “Take care.”

 

Bucky gives him a small smile, “Will do.”

 

 

The first thing Steve does after closing the door is call Sam. He explains the whole thing, Sam laughs at him for five minutes straight, and offers to stage an intervention. Steve is extremely tempted to take it up.

 

The intervention is staged, anyway, he finds, when he shows up at Sam's later the same day to find him, Peggy, and Scott talking in hushed murmurs with serious expressions. There's an awkward silence as he gets in and hears them immediately stop talking. It doesn't go away until he gets himself a drink and joins them in their tiny circle on Sam's bed.

 

“I did not sign up for this.” Steve says when they explain to him their plan of action, getting a variety of faces that all express the same thing, somehow: _disappointment_ , “I'm not _wooing_ Bucky, what the fuck?”

 

“Dude,” starts Sam, who Steve is about to dethrone from the best friend status pretty soon, and replacing with Bucky, because _fuck him,_ Bucky wouldn’t do this, “You're either making a move on your boy, or we're setting you up with someone else. End of discussion.”

 

“I’m a hundred-percent sure he's a hundred-percent straight.” Steve declares—though he’s not fully sure, having never actually seen him with someone else—at which he earns a look from Sam.

 

“First off, he could be bi, or pan,” retorts Peggy, and Steve hates that she could be right, “Second, how would him being straight explain that whole _see your face_ thing?”

 

“Pretty sure he was just teasing me,” Steve concludes, and he knows this because he'd spent an embarrassingly long time thinking about his comment before managing to drifting to sleep, “ _You_ know how it was in school, Pegs. Same thing.”

 

Peggy pinches the bridge of her nose, “I can't even begin to tell you how much it's _not_ the same thing.”

 

“Just try, Steve, c'mon.” Scott adds, “I'll even teach you some of my pickup lines.”

 

Steve makes a look of disgust at that. He knows what Scott's very original pickup lines are like. They might work occasionally (read: on one Hope van Dyne, only), but most of the time they just cause people to straight up walk away, and Steve has _standards_ —he is _not_ using those. Scott mutters a soft _they're not that bad, geez_ at that.

 

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Sam starts, laying on that voice of authority that actually and very unfairly makes him sound scary, “You've been pining over Text Boy for over two months now. You're either asking him out or getting over him. _End of discussion_.”

 

“Fucking,” Steve starts, his mind a jumbled mess of possible outcomes of picking either two, and his heart a jumbled mess of emotions—what’s new, really—“Okay, set me up on that date.”

 

Scott looks delighted, Peggy looks indifferent, and Sam looks displeased.

 

“Not the choice I wanted you to make, honestly,” Sam says, as Scott and Peggy discuss potential dates off to the side—Peggy mentions a distant family relative—“You know we just want the best for you, right?”

 

“I know, Sam.” Steve sighs. His friends mean well, he knows that, and they just want him to find someone after five years of being single, he knows that, but Steve honestly doesn't think he's cut out for the whole romance business after his break-up with Peggy. They're still friends, at least, so there's that, “If it doesn't work out with mystery person, then—”

 

“Then you're asking Barnes, mister.” Sam cuts in, “If _that_ doesn't work out, then we'll stop bothering you.”

 

“Fine,” Steve lies through his teeth—this is very _not_ fine—“Don’t get Nat or Bruce into this, please?”

 

Sam smiles, “Sure.”

 

By the time he gets home, Scott's already sent him the details of his blind date. As he unlocks his door, he hears a guitar—acoustic, weird—playing faintly from Bucky's apartment. He gets in, plans his outfit beforehand, and makes a better version of fried rice for dinner. He agonizes over the small details as he works on a commission. He agonizes over the even smaller details as he tries to sleep.

 

The date has to be perfect, because he's not telling Bucky—not now, not ever. _End of discussion._

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

Steve is not terrified out of his mind—absolutely not.

 

He's been fussing over the whole thing for hours now, having decided to take a break from his work for the day and spend his anxiety on just one thing for the time being. He makes sure the outfit he chose the day before is fitting, makes sure he has enough time to get to the restaurant on the specified time, two in the afternoon, tries not to feel bad about the whole Bucky situation, and steels himself for the nerves that are inevitably about to follow.

 

Steve's remembered all the details about his blind date that Scott mentioned: her name is Sharon, she's blond and just a little shorter than Steve, and she will not hesitate to kick his ass if he even looks at her wrong. He keeps a mental list of potential topics they could discuss: their jobs, their favorite shows, their hobbies, the fact that Steve really doesn't want to be on this date, their childhoods, their families…

 

It has to go well. His frail heart depends on it.

 

 

When he finally thinks he's the bare minimum of prepared, he takes a deep breath, gives himself one final look in the mirror, and pulls open the main door.

 

Bucky's standing in front of him.

 

“Oh, hey. I was just about to knock.” he says, with a small smile, and Steve suddenly doesn't want to see his face, doesn't want to go on the date, just wants to cocoon himself in his blanket on his bed and never move, ever again, “You weren't home yesterday, so— wait, are you going somewhere?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” replies Steve, somehow willing his voice to even come out as Bucky looks him over, praying he doesn’t look as bad as he thinks he does, “Got— got a date.”

 

“Oh.” Bucky says, and Steve can't tell if his smile actually faltered there for a second, or if he's just seeing things, “I'll come hassle you later, then. Have fun.”

 

Steve doesn't reply, and just flashes him a nervous grin and flees.

 

 

The date goes fine enough, and in hindsight Steve wonders just why he worried so much over it. He gets to the place on time, Sharon somehow seems ecstatic to see him, mentioning that she’s seen his artwork, compliments him on his clothes, and the two hit it off pretty well in terms of discussion, in Steve's opinion. They even manage to agree upon one thing, without it actually coming up priorly: “I don't think we should date.”

 

It startles Steve enough to almost make him drop the spoon he's holding, “Why not?”

 

“I dunno. Seems like you have someone on your mind already.” Sharon tells him, like it's a fact that everyone just _knows_ at this point—is every person on the planet aware that he fancies one Bucky Barnes?—“Besides, I think we'd be better off as friends.”

 

“Well, okay.” he says, because if the both of them want this, then it's fine, regardless of the fact that he’s now definitely doomed to telling Bucky, Sam would make sure of it, “Scott’s gonna be sad, though.”

 

“He sucks at setting people up, he’s well aware.” Sharon smiles, “We should give him some feedback, like, tell him to make Tinder but for finding friends. He’s great at completely platonic matchmaking.”

 

Steve laughs at that. They finish their lunch, split the bill, exchange numbers, and head their separate ways.

 

He's going to avoid Sam for as long as physically possible, no matter what he has to do.

 

 

After a short trip to the grocery store, Steve gets home. The first thing he does is finally check up on his work things, because he’d neglected it all day, and the least he could do, now that it was getting dark and he was getting tired, was give his inbox one last look for the day. There's some mails from potential clients, a few wondering if he’ll accept payment in the form of exposure— _sure I will, you fucking idiots_ —a reply from _Stark Publishers_ after almost a week, some shitty spam, and—

 

He opens the email in a heartbeat.

 

He’s not sure he has a heartbeat left after reading it.

 

In summary, it says the following: They loved the new sketches. They showed them to J.B.B., and _he_ loved the sketches. All of them match their vision perfectly. J.B.B. liked number three the most, and the rest of the team has approved of him making that one the final product. Steve has been sent half of his payment, and would receive the other half upon completion. They would like to be posted with every step of the artwork.

 

There in Steve's bank account, that's usually filled with dust and tumbleweed, sits a few thousand dollars, just like that, real casual.

 

He's ready to throw Bucky a week-long party.

 

Of course, he instead takes out that one bottle of rum he keeps for _very good_ or _very bad_ days, and drinks it alongside dinner. It's a very good day, sure, but it’s almost nine at night, and he's not gonna bother Bucky, especially when has these messy emotions he doesn't know how to deal with. Bucky deserves something better, like a three-layer cake in his honor. Steve could probably buy one and give it to him the very next day.

 

For now, though, he stays on his couch—with a plate of spaghetti he managed _not_ to boil into nothing, staring at the same mail with a goofy grin—because Bucky's most definitely asleep, he's pretty drunk already (he’s lightweight, don’t judge), and not ready to deal with feelings just yet.

 

But then the guitar starts, electric and loud and somehow not as annoying as before, and Steve figures it's as good an excuse as ever to go show up on Bucky’s doorstep, thank him for his help, offer to send him to Disneyland for an entire month, and maybe just propose, too. _Fuck it_ is his last coherent thought.

 

If he does something embarrassing, then, well, he'll just drink more to forget it.

 

 

Bucky opens his door after the third ring, hair tied back up in that bun Steve's slowly starting to appreciate more and more, wearing a tee with a cardigan on top, along with some sweatpants, which is not the look of someone Steve would expect from someone blasting melancholic indie songs.

 

“Oh, uh— Hey, Steve.” Bucky leans on the doorframe, expression suddenly shifting from disinterested to curious and something else Steve can't quite identity, “Need something?”

 

 _Just your affections,_ Steve thinks, and out of habit, “Can you turn your guitar down?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” he replies flatly, completely unlike before, and Steve suddenly misses his raised eyebrows and cocky grins, “How, uh— How was the date?”

 

“It was alright,” Steve shrugs. It was better than alright, but since it ended up being a friendly lunch rather than a date, he'd say the _date_ part of it, which lasted ten and a half minutes, was alright. Part of Steve wants to take it back and brag about it being _amazing_ , just to see how Bucky would react, but he can't really bring himself to lie when there's alcohol in his system, no matter how little.

 

“Just _alright_?” Bucky asks, frowning slightly, “Did she— or he, sorry for assuming— Did something happen?”

 

“Nah,” Steve replies. _She just figured out I have the hots for you,_ he thinks, _just like everyone else, apparently_ , “She was nice, but we both wanna stay just friends.”

 

“Cool.” Bucky says, then takes one good look at Steve’s face, which is probably flushing from the alcohol, before asking, “Are you drunk?”

 

“Maybe.” Steve silently chastises his body for giving it away. He probably looks pathetic right now, standing in front of Bucky—who looks like a literal God _constantly_ —in the only clean pullover and pants he has left in his laundry from the past week, face redder than a tomato from a couple of sips of rum.

 

“Huh. You sure things were alright? I don’t think you’re supposed to drink your sorrows away if it went decently enough.” Bucky quips, nudging Steve lightly with his elbow, “Actually, scratch that, you look _chipper_. Something you’re hiding about this _date_ , Steve?”

 

“Eh, got better news than barely managin’ to befriend my blind date,” Steve garbles, because he’s still not over _that mail_ and the fact that _J. B. Fucking. B._ saw his art, “Book cover commission got approved. The _author_ saw the sketches. I’m richer than I’ve been this entire year. I think I’m dying, but in, like, a good way. You get what I mean?”

 

“I get what you mean,” Bucky nods, “That’s amazing, though.”

 

“I’m gonna buy you a house. Big one, with those huge garden things.” kicks in the dumbass part of Steve’s brain, uninhibited by the alcohol. Bucky looks lost, nose scrunched up in a way that is _so damn adorable_ , and Steve reminds him, “You helped. I would’a been crying here right this moment if you hadn’t, hundred-percent.”

 

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, looking down at his shoes with a small pout and a blush adorning his cheeks, and Steve would do _anything_ to see that face for the rest of his life, _except_ telling Bucky about his feelings, of course, “I didn’t do much.”

 

“Bucky, one more word and I _will_ punch you. Don’t even start.” Steve begins, a threat he would absolutely act upon, if needed, and Bucky throws up his hands in mock defense, “You helped, _a lot_. As thanks, I’m gonna give you a hug right now, and a house tomorrow. You’re not allowed to say no.”

 

Bucky looks startled at that, blinking like a deer caught in the headlights, and Steve’s mind is screaming _take it back take it back Take It Back_ , “Um, unless you don’t wanna, which is totally—”

 

“Shut up,” Bucky interrupts, giving Steve a real, genuine smile, with his blue eyes crinkling around the corners and his subtle blush from before remaining. Steve’s pretty sure the butterflies in his guts have their own butterflies. Then, Bucky holds out his arms—an invitation, “C’mere, punk.”

 

Steve obliges, because Bucky says so, and this is probably the first and last hug he’s ever going to get from him—might as well cherish it, right?

 

He slings his arms around Bucky’s waist, and buries his head in the crook of his neck.

 

 

_He’s really warm._

 

 

“You’re really warm,” Steve mumbles, after a moment, still hugging his friend, thanking whoever’s above he didn’t say something like _you smell nice_ or _your hair’s so soft_ or _I hope this hug never ends_. Even his drunken brain manages to realize it’s going on for longer than hugs usually do—Steve doesn’t give a single flying fuck, and he’s not letting go until Bucky does, sue him—“Are you sick? Why’re you so warm?”

 

“Unlike _some people_ ,” Bucky says, not making a move to shift, or draw back, or anything, “I’m wearing season-appropriate clothes that keep me from sneezing for three months straight.”

 

“You’re a jerk,” Steve mutters, because he’s being a complete asshole, a real meanie, a goddamn menace, and Steve’s feelings are irreversibly hurt, excuse you.

 

Bucky snickers, his breath tickling Steve’s neck in a way that sends shivers all over his body, “You _love_ this jerk.”

 

 _I absolutely do, with my entire heart, ever since he accidentally texted me that fated day in October, and I wanna live with said jerk in the house that I’m_ totally _going to buy him,_ Steve wants to say, but because he’s gonna bottle up his emotions forever and carry them with him to his grave, apparently, he replies, with the steadiest voice he can muster up, “I only _put up_ with this jerk, ‘cause he gave me a damn good cake and saved me from the biggest breakdown of my life.”

 

Bucky gasps theatrically, pulling away just a bit, and Steve immediately regrets saying that _,_ “Is that my entire worth, Stevie? How can I gain your love, pray tell?”

 

Their foreheads are almost touching, they’re _that_ close, and Steve can make out the pale grey in the blue of his eyes and the slight chapping of his lips. Steve could be brave and pull him in for a kiss right this second, it would not be hard—except it _would_ , because he’s utterly and absolutely chicken shit, and not going to do anything about that fact, he knows. Steve tries to summon the best stone-face he can, instead, “Keep giving me food, and I’ll think about it.”

 

“Okay, smartass.” Bucky grins, and steps back. Steve misses his warmth.

 

Silence lingers between the two for a few seconds, and Steve ponders shortly what it would feel like for the floor to swallow him whole—probably pretty fun. He wants it to happen, right this second.

 

“Please don’t pass out on my doorstep,” Bucky says, after noticing Steve sway _slightly_ to the right, “I’m not strong enough to carry you around.”

 

“I do what I want, mom,” Steve replies, and sways to the left to prove a point. Bucky’s hands actually reach out to catch him, but he stabilizes himself before they do. At that, Bucky gives him a non-lethal blow to the stomach.

 

“Don’t fucking do that,” he grumbles, and then takes Steve’s hand in his own and drags him to 918. Steve keeps his steps grounded and reluctant. He doesn’t want to go. Bucky opens the door straight up, because he knows Steve well enough to be aware that he’s a dumbass who forgets to lock his door when he’s drunk, “Get in, stupid. Go sleep on your own bed.”

 

Steve shoves away all and any iterations of the phrase _take me to bed_ that come to mind, and asks, “What color do you want your new house’s bedroom?”

 

Bucky avoids his gaze, “Sky blue.”

 

“Okay,” he slurs out, “G’night, Buck.”

 

“Sleep well.” Bucky says, and with that, he’s gone.

 

 

Steve closes his door unenthusiastically, and locks it.

 

There’s no guitar, true to Bucky’s word.

 

 

 **bucky:** _sorry for dying on you there_

 **bucky:** _been busy w work_

 **bucky:** _fucking deadlines_

 **bucky:** _wish i could be mad, but its mostly my fault for procrastinating_

 **bucky:** _and now its the part of the job where i have to work with other people. sigh_

 **steve:** _Its that bad?_

 **bucky:** _kinda_

 **bucky:** _not as bad as other times tho_

 **bucky:** _we got a new guy working w us this time. hes really good at his thing, doesnt need explaining every other hour. a fresh breath of air tbh_

 **steve:** _huh._

 **steve:** _you’re saved then?_

 **bucky:** _yeah i guess_

 **bucky:** _makes it more bearable at least_

 **steve:** _that’s nice._

 **bucky:** _steve are you drinking_

 **steve:** _how can you tell?_

 **bucky:** _bcs youre not typing like a grandpa_

 **bucky:** _and still somehow managing to spell words right_

 **steve:**   _its Autocorretc_

 **steve:** _and rude. i can type however I Want_

 **bucky:** _bad day?_

 **steve:** _Nope. great day. amazing day_

 **bucky:** _would be even more amazing if you went to sleep on time, sir_

 **steve:** _but I wanna talk to you buggy._

 **bucky:** _why are you like this_

 **steve:** _buckk_

 **steve:** _buckee_

 **steve:** _buckaroo_

 **bucky:** _regretting ever telling you my name_

 **steve:** _Hey. you did the same with me. I’m allowed to_

 **bucky:** _when the fuck?_

 **steve:** _Scroll up, sonny boy_

 **bucky:** _oh_

 **bucky:** _i did_

 **steve:** _See? Im Allowed_

 **bucky:** _shhh_

 **bucky:** _anyways. gotta get going. just had to let you know im not dead (yet)_

 **bucky:** _tty when i have less people on my back ready to kill me_

 **steve:** _kk_

 **steve:** _pls don’t die._

 **bucky:** _ill try_

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

Okay, so _maybe_ Steve was planning on barricading his apartment and spending the rest of his life as a hermit, but that had absolutely nothing to do with what happened on Sunday—it did not. He was just focusing his time on his job, that's all, and in none of the seventy-two hours that he spent on his own had he thought about the-neighbor-who-shall-not-be-named, of course not. Sam had called him everyday in the _Three Days of Solitude_ , as had been dubbed in his mind, probably wondering how things went with Sharon, and whether or not a second intervention is needed next, for mister-Steve's-boy(-not). Steve was quick to turn off his phone in the first hour.

 

And okay, so _maybe_ he didn't exactly want Sam to find out that he didn't get anywhere with Sharon, and had somehow ended up drunk in front of 917 the same day, instead. He _definitely_ didn't want Sam to find out that he'd ended up hugging his friend for a good few minutes and staring at his face in a way that was not completely platonic.

 

Steve could live without his phone for a few days, it's no big deal. There's a new routine now, anyway—which is unusual, because he usually never willingly changes the schedule he has—he’d get up early, have breakfast, head to the gym and interact wordlessly with Natasha, come back, work on commissions, have lunch, work on commissions, have dinner, work on commissions, realize it's two in the morning, and go to sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.

 

The fact that the routine didn't accommodate checking Bucky's texts is probably just Steve's subconscious trying to protect him.

 

 

The routine works, until it doesn't, because, as usual, life just _has_ to crush Steve's hopes and dreams, and mix them in a blender with his tears to make a smoothie of everything that's wrong with his existence. He wakes up on day three of self-inflicted isolation, what should’ve been a regular Wednesday, with his nose stuffed and head dizzy, which grants him an actual, legitimate reason to stay home, but makes him feel like death. His doorbell rings on Thursday at the unholiest of times (eleven in the morning isn't unholy, Peggy would argue, but he would pretend not to hear), and Steve _knows_ it's him, because Sam has his spare keys, the others would have informed him, his Amazon package doesn’t arrive until next week, and there's not really anyone else in line itching to meet him, truthfully.

 

If Bucky happens to catch the cold that'd fallen upon Steve the day before, it is entirely his own fault. Steve is not to be blamed, ever.

 

“Hey, neighbor.” his friend says as soon as the door is open, and Steve is only slightly ashamed to admit that he'd expected the man to bring along some food, again—like, cupcakes, or something. His brain very helpfully reminds him that Bucky is in no way obliged to give him _anything_ , especially considering that he'd never actually properly agreed to Steve's drunken request. He doesn't thank his brain for that.

 

“You should go away,” he mumbles, metaphorically throws himself out the window at his own choice of words, and then sniffles, hoping the action explains what he'd actually meant to convey.

 

“Oh.” Bucky takes one good look at Steve's scruffy hair (courtesy of frustrating commissions), his dark circles (courtesy of a lack of sleep), and the one nostril that's he's stuffed with tissues (courtesy of the common cold), “I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang at my place, but you don't look so peachy.”

 

“Thanks,” he replies, and it ends up sounding more like _danks_. On the inside, he's absolutely not freaking out over Bucky's would-be invitation. Damn fucking cold.

 

“You doing okay?” Bucky asks. Steve doesn't really want to mention how he really just wants to pass out right this second, and sleep for a week straight—or a entire century, either’s fine.

 

He shrugs, instead, “Nothin’ new, really.”

 

Bucky gives him that look of disbelief he used to get from his mom—when he’d gotten the shit beat out of him at school, and he’d try to pass it off as him having tripped over a pebble—and presses his right hand against Steve's forehead. He does his darned best not to lean into the touch, because Bucky's practically a radiator, and he's really fucking chilly.

 

“You're running a fever.” he announces, Steve's eyes fall to the floor, and Bucky lets himself inside, taking the keys from Steve's hand and locking the door behind him. He takes Steve's hand and pulls him towards his bedroom, “C'mon. Let's get you warmed up.”

 

Steve's in the middle of a protest when he sneezes, the words _I don't need you getting sick, too_ coming out as an _achoo_ , instead. Bucky gives him a small smile, probably the same one he’d give to a tiny kitten, and Steve can practically hear the unspoken _aww_. He does _not_ sneeze like one, fuck off.

 

Once he’s taken to bed (disappointingly not in the way that he’d wanted, not that he, you know—actually, you know what, fuck it, he _did_ want to be taken to bed in that way), Bucky shoves him under every blanket he can lay his eyes on, which is _several_ , because Steve really likes hogging his blankets and keeping them in his room, for some reason.

 

“Did you take any meds?” Bucky asks, once Steve’s effectively trapped in his rather warm and comfortable prison. He shakes his head wearily—he hadn’t really been focusing enough on his wellbeing to really bother with medication, or anything, really, because the work comes first, always—and gets the all-too-familiar sigh of discontent in return, “Okay. Where are they?”

 

He points at his bathroom, and coughs out, “Cabinet.”

 

Bucky wanders off, and Steve lets himself close his eyes and reflect about his life and how it’s managed to come to this. He wonders if whatever higher being that may or may not exist out there just has something against him, for some reason, because he’s pretty sure he’s done absolutely nothing to deserve whatever’s happening to him right now, not unless he’s been killing innocent people in his sleep, completely unaware, or something. Bucky comes back a while later, dropping a few pills in Steve’s hands and handing him a glass of water, and then giving him a stern, intent frown.

 

“So, first, you’re going to take these pills, and then, I’m going to make you soup, and you’re going to drink— eat—” Bucky stops, contemplates just _what_ exactly soup is, “Whatever, you’re going to consume the soup. Then you’re going to sleep.”

 

“You don’t have to,” Steve coughs out, because he’s used to this—he can take of himself just fine, and has been for years now, thank you very much—”I’ll be fine.”

 

“You’re right, I don’t _have_ to.” he says, and for a moment, Steve expects him to get up and walk away, which would be fair, really, because Bucky doesn’t really owe him this. His friend doesn’t budge, however, not even a bit, “But I _want_ to, Steve. You look like shit, no offense, and if I can help somehow, anyhow, then I want to.”

 

That might just be the sappiest thing Steve’s heard in ages, and he watches romance movies on _a regular basis_ , but he knows Bucky doesn’t mean it in _that way_ —of course he doesn’t, he’s just being a good friend, leaving Steve stranded by himself in Piningville—and Steve forces himself to not fixate on his words, “You’re gonna get sick.”

 

Bucky grins, as Steve downs the medication, “Then I guess you’ll just have to come by my place to take care of me, too.”

 

Steve almost spits out the water he’s drinking, and Bucky’s hands fly out, probably thinking he’s choking on the liquid, like the fucking idiot he is, “M— maybe.”

 

His friend gives him a lopsided smile at that, and heads to the kitchen.

 

Steve takes several minutes to try and calm his beating heart (it doesn’t work), steady his breath (it doesn’t work), and rid his mind of thoughts revolving Bucky (it doesn’t work).

 

He needs some damn sleep, pronto.

 

 

Steve manages to doze off, somehow, and the relief flooding over him once he jolts back up to find he’d gotten to flee from his brain and its ever-constant stream of thoughts for twenty whole minutes is almost enough to make him cry.

 

 _Almost_ , because the exact moment he’s up, Bucky’s walking back into his room, and his brain immediately goes back to its bullshit. Typical.

 

“I’m genuinely surprised you had fresh ingredients, this time.” he points out, real casual, like Steve hadn’t been actually been trying to cook himself recently, because that one attempt he gave to making fried rice didn’t go horribly wrong, and it motivated him in some weird way, “Anyways, here’s some corn soup. Lemme know if it’s too hot, or too cold, or really bad. I’ll just order soup, then.”

 

“Thank you,” Steve mutters, his voice raspy, and silently swears to finish the soup, even if it tastes atrocious—only because he’s hungry, really, not because it’d make Bucky happy.

 

The soup’s really good, _obviously_ , and because Steve can’t really trust his own mouth to make proper, sense-making sentences happen at the moment, he just gives Bucky a smile after the first sip, praying it doesn’t betray his emotions—his _emotions_ emotions, his definitely-not-friendly emotions, his you’re-killing-me-here-and-I-honestly-kinda-like-it emotions, you get the point.

 

Bucky smiles back, and leaves it at that.

 

 

When Steve’s done with the dish a few minutes later, the soft clattering of the spoon against the bowl startles Bucky out of the staring-competition he’s having with his phone. Just as Steve sets it aside, Bucky asks, “You done?”

 

“Yep,” he replies, and manages to steal a glance at what Bucky's been frowning at for the last five minutes on his phone, as his friend leaves his phone on the bed and shuffles up to take the bowl back to the kitchen.

 

It's his— _their_ chat, the one that Steve hasn't checked in more than three days, because Sam's probably still trying to contact him, and he doesn't want to deal with getting calls every two minutes, not just yet. His morality smacks him with guilt, telling him that he's probably making Bucky worried sick by pulling the disappearing act like that, and at that, he swiftly grabs for the phone left abandoned on his bedside table and turns it on.

 

He doesn't even bother looking at the billion calls from Sam, and goes straight to the texts. The first few are from Tuesday.

 

 **bucky:** _woo im a free man_

 **bucky:** _kinda_

 **bucky:** _for now_

 **bucky:** _but that means no responsibilities until after new years. yay_

 **bucky:** _time to sleep for a living_

 

He scrolls down further. The next few messages start from Wednesday.

 

 **bucky:** _steve did you die before me_

 **bucky:** _how dare you_

 **bucky:** _you were supposed to dramatically cry over my body_

 **bucky:** _whos gonna write my biography now_

 

Steve chuckles at that, or attempts to, and it comes out as more of a wheeze, instead. There's a gap after that, and the last couple of texts come just before midnight.

 

 **bucky:** _steeb im drunk again did u miss this_

 **bucky:** _not as much as last time tho. just a bit_

 **bucky:** _im so bored and u jst vanished_

 **bucky:** _oh and_

 **bucky:** _can you let me know if youre ok_

 **bucky:** _please_

 **bucky:** _i know its dumb but drunk me gets emotional and emotions mean drunk me getting worried over tiny things_

 **bucky:** _one text. anything_

 **bucky:** _preferably a meme. i would like 1 of those tyvm_

 

There's nothing after that. Steve types out a response, quickly, before Bucky's back in his room.

 

 **steve:** _I'm okay. So sorry for not letting you know earlier._

 **steve:** _Work's getting in the way but I'll try not to disappear again_

 **steve:** _here's a meme because I'm nice_

 **steve:** [Attached image: screenshot_121318.jpeg (1.32 MB)]

 **steve:** _Look at this dumb cat. I love him_

 

That suffices, he concludes, because the work excuse is all he has (he can't mention the feelings, and the wingman, and the sickness), and that's probably the best he can do with it. Hearing footsteps coming back, he hurriedly places the phone back to its original place, and acts as nonchalant as he can. He's not a good actor, but he hopes he looks convincing enough while sick. It works, somehow, miraculously, as Bucky takes his back his seat on the bed without a word or even a glance in Steve’s direction. He picks up his own phone, expression contorting into surprise, and after a few seconds, his whole face lights up, like Steve’s text is the best thing he’s seen all week.

 

 _What the fuck_ , Steve thinks to himself, _what the absolute, genuine fuck_. Of course, that doesn’t really answer any of his questions, because he doesn’t say it out loud, and he doesn’t understand what’s going on—like, at all, ever— but he’d rather keep his mouth shut right now, than blurt out any bullshit. He doesn’t need to talk about emotions and feelings right now, and he knows it.

 

Bucky doesn’t notice him staring, and he’s glad for once that he always keeps his phone on silent, because it buzzing the same time as Bucky sends his messages would raise suspicions, and lead to confrontations. Steve _hates_ confrontations.

 

When his friend finally sets his phone aside, Steve is in the middle of dozing off for a second time, trying to memorize the pattern of his blank and completely flat ceiling just so he doesn’t keep looking in Bucky’s way. Turning his attention back to the sad, sick, bedridden man, Bucky says, “Good to see you’re following the schedule, but you should probably be a little more comfortable than that if you’re trying to sleep.”

 

Steve blinks a few times, takes in the position he’s currently in—sitting up, back tilted at an awkward angle against his pillows—and sends a distraught glance towards his laptop, sitting on the table at the other end of the room. He can’t _sleep_ right now, he’s got commissions to finish, and besides, he’d slept for a good five hours earlier, anyway. He’ll be just fine.

 

“Nope.” Bucky pushes Steve back from where he tries to get up, “You, mister, are going to sleep.”

 

And because Steve never goes down without a fight, _ever_ , he tucks his hands under Bucky’s arms, and tickles, like a real adult trying to get what he wants (it’s an actual tactic that he uses often, though chances of it working most of the time are pretty, pretty low). The other man laughs, loudly and suddenly, and Steve feels a smirk form on his face and warmth spread in his chest as he keeps going.

 

“F— fucker,” Bucky gets out, in between his laughter, “That’s not— not fair.”

 

Steve doesn’t respond, and instead gives jailbreaking out of his blanket cell a second try, but before he knows it, he’s being shoved back, powerfully enough to make him groan as his back hits the headboard, but not enough for the impact to actually hurt. When he opens his eyes, Bucky is inches away, his hands cornering Steve, expression all-business, even though he’s still huffing and blushing from being tickled earlier.

 

 _Oops_.

 

“You are,” he starts, and Steve blames his breath suddenly getting all funny on his sickness, “ _not_ working.”

 

“Okay,” Steve manages to squeak out, nothing more, nothing less, because his brain’s positively short-circuited, and the rest of his body is just screaming in his face—a very helpful input, indeed, “Can I— Can I save my documents, at least?”

 

At that, Bucky leans back, leaving Steve to scurry off to his desk. He deliberately works slowly, meticulously saving his three whole files, and actually puts away his setup instead of just shoving it aside, like he usually does, just to buy those few extra seconds away from the bed. He really doesn’t want to go back.

 

But, needless to say, he has to, because Bucky’s watching him expectantly, arms crossed, and he doesn’t really have a choice here, does he? Once he’s done, checking everything over a second time just to make sure he doesn’t find blank canvases the next time he gets to draw—whenever that’s gonna be—and turns back to face Bucky.

 

“Don’t think I can sleep,” he admits, because he definitely can’t, with all that adrenaline in his system from the whole _getting pushed against surfaces_ thing that just happened, and his body still yelling. If Bucky asks, he’ll just said he’s slept for half-a-day already—God, he wishes he had—and leave it at that. It’s a great plan.

 

“Want lullabies?” Bucky grins, causing to Steve reminisce about the damned electric guitar and retort with a glare, which just causes him to snicker, in turn, “Movies, then? I always fall asleep to shitty ones.”

 

Steve shrugs, picking up his laptop and carrying it over to his bed, like he’s not just falling into the who-know-which horrible situation of the day. It’s probably a bad idea, but then, again, _all_ his ideas are bad, because he’s an absolute moron, so it’s no different, really. _I’m going to sleep_ , he reminds himself, with a resolve he doesn’t feel, _I’m not going to think about Bucky, or his eyes, or his breath, and I’m going to_ sleep _._

 

Steve doesn’t bother with the blanket fort, not again (because he’s feeling pretty warm, by this point), and simply climbs into bed, shifting into a pose somewhere in-between sitting up and lying down, and props the laptop on his legs. Bucky shuffles besides him as he turns the system on, and Steve tries to focus on choosing what garbage film he should watch, instead of the small incidences of contact that happen to occur.

 

Obviously, because he's Steve, and Steve's life is a damn mess, the one moment he needs to remember the name of a bad movie, he recalls all the good ones, instead. When he's spent a good few seconds on the Netflix front page, search bar sitting woefully empty, still trying to think of _one film_ , Bucky plucks the laptop from him. “I'll choose.”

 

Without hesitation, he types in _Sharknado_ , and Steve almost slaps himself for not thinking of it earlier. It's fine, though, because he's seen it thousands of times already (it's just a classic, so bad that it's _good_ ), and he isn't really going to focus on the crappy story today, he's just going to rest.

 

Bucky has other plans, because _of course he does_ , and just a few minutes into the movie, he's shaking with laughter besides Steve, who's trying his utter fucking best to get some shut-eye. But he doesn't point it out, since, well, since he doesn't want to stop hearing Bucky laugh, _there it is_ , shut up about it. It's not the absolute _worst_ sound in the world, he can live with that.

 

Somehow, at some point, his mess of a brain takes pity on him, and somewhere in between not watching the movie at all, and looking at Bucky as he titters at the crappy jokes, Steve falls asleep.

 

 

When he comes to, the first thing he notices is that he's definitely not in the position that he remembered himself being in—head leaned against the pillow and not the headboard—and he pushes the fact that Bucky must have moved him to this state out of his mind as he paws at the bedside table for his phone. Once it’s clutched in his hand, he turns it on to find three things:

  1. The time. It’s a little past two in the afternoon, which means he managed to sleep for about three hours. _Not bad_ , he tells himself.
  2. Bucky’s texts from earlier, which he saw him type in front of his eyes.
  3. A singular, ominous text from Sam (who’d always rather talk on the phone than message someone), which simply says _I’m coming to your place, in like 5 mins_ , sent half an hour ago.



 

His first thought is that he really want some more of that soup from earlier. His second thought is wondering if Bucky left already. His third thought is that if Sam sent that thirty minutes ago, then—

 

He staggers out of bed, rushing out of his room with his brain in a daze, and his legs full-jelly. Reaching the living room, he breathes out, “ _Sam_.”

  
His best friend—he’s about to be kicked from the title real soon, trust him—looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on his couch, and the bastard has the audacity to smile real wide, real sardonic, as he addresses him back, “Steve, my man, my dude. Thought you died there, for a sec.”

 

Steve wants to deck him in the jaw, _so badly_ , “What’re you doing here?”

 

“What, a guy can’t show up to see if the wind and cold finally pried his friend away from him?” Sam responds, smug in a way that makes Steve want to strangle him, right there, right then.

 

“I’m not gonna die of the _common fucking cold_ , Sam.” He hisses, and immediately starts coughing, like the irony of this whole thing is just really funny to fate.

 

“He _swears_?” comes a second voice, and Steve immediately freezes as his brain finally clears up enough to take in everything around him better. Bucky’s right there— _what the fuck_ —sitting next to Sam— _hell no_ —watching the whole thing play out from his comfy corner on the sofa— _I don’t deserve this, I don’t_ —and Steve is suddenly overly-aware of what he’s saying and how he’s looking. He stands up a little straighter at that.

 

“Worse than a sailor,” says the traitor, and if glares could kill, Steve’s would’ve murdered him five times over.

 

Bucky gives a contemplative _hmm_ , “I’ve literally _never_ heard him curse, though?”

 

Sam’s eyebrows wiggle in a way that Steve _knows_ is saying _oh, not swearing in front of our boy here, are we?_ , and he’s so, _so_ close to kicking the absolute shit out of him, “Yeah, maybe because I don’t actually swear all the time?”

 

Bucky looks at him like he doesn’t believe him, and Steve dreads to wonder just how much Sam has told him about Steve to change him like this. Instead of treading down the path of just how much he cusses, Steve stares hard at Sam and declares, “I’m firing you from the best friend post”, sniffles, and continues, as he walks to the kitchen for a glass of water, “Putting up an ad for a replacement tomorrow.”

 

Sam gasps, in half-fake-half-real offence, and Bucky adds in, “I volunteer.”

 

“You’re hired,” Steve mumbles, not really thinking, downing his cup, “No special privileges provided.”

 

His new best friend does a fistpump, “Yes! Take that, Wilson.”

 

 _Oh, great, they’re on last-name basis already_ , Steve thinks, _I’m going to die, aren’t I?_

 

“So, mind telling me why you’re really here, Sam?” he says, once his head is just a tad less foggier, and his brain isn’t only thinking about the different ways he can take a life with a spoon.

 

“Hey, _hey_. You were ignoring my calls— for three days, may I remind you.” Sam replies, and as soon as those words are out, Steve wants to throw himself out the window, because this is confrontation, and he wants no part in it, “I was _genuinely_ worried.”

 

“Three days?” Bucky gives Steve a look, “You do that to all your best friends?”

 

“Only when ‘m sick, or working on something important.” Steve mutters, not adding the third condition, which is when—

 

“Or when he’s heartbroken,” Sam cuts in, giving a grin that Steve oh so hates, “Remember that week after Peggy left? You still haven’t paid me back for all the ice cream I got you then, by the way.”

 

He tries to hide his flushing face in his palms, and lets out a muffled, “That was _one time_.”

 

“Right, and that one time is the reason I have your spare keys,” Sam counters. Steve remembers reluctantly handing him said keys, five years ago, as well as a half-hearted promise of taking better care of himself, which he really isn't, at the moment—guess Sam really does need to keep checking on him—”Because you’ll be damned if that pride of yours ever lets you ask others for help, right?”

 

Steve just ducks his head in shame. It’s true, but he shouldn’t say it—not in front of _Bucky_.

 

Sam sighs, “Look, Steve, I love you, no-homo, but you gotta start _not_ doing that.”

 

“From next year,” Steve mutters, “Promise.”

 

“Sure,” he replies, sarcastic, “I believe you, totally.”

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Steve retorts, not even trying to censor himself, since the secret’s out there already, anyway, and he can't really bring himself to care about anything at the moment.

 

“Why are you like this,” Sam says, and looks at Bucky, “How did you deal with him?”

 

God, Steve is really, really about to die, apparent from the huge grin on Bucky's face, “I don't know, he wasn't really complaining when _I_ did anything.”

 

Sam gives him a stare, brows furrowed, a _really?_ written clearly on his face. Steve's about to pursue a career as an arsonist, and his first job will be burning down the house of his former best friend, and his second job will be setting himself on fire. For a moment, he considers fleeing to wherever the hell Peggy's staying for the month, because even listening to her gush about her upcoming marriage would be more bearable than what he's going through right now.

 

“See, that's his _I'm gonna run away right now_ face,” Sam tells Bucky, who nods thoughtfully, staring intently at Steve in a way he doesn't entirely appreciate, “And that's his _why do I exist_ face.”

 

“Why don’t you start a nature documentary, Wilson?” Steve proposes, “Since you sure are great at making shit observations about things.”

 

Sam huffs, “Maybe I will, asshat.”

 

They’re moving on to insults, now, _fantastic_. He’s going to need some damn food in his stomach if he wants to live through this. Without bothering to reply, Steve gets up and heads to the kitchen, returning seconds later with the entire bowl of soup that Bucky made, half of its contents consumed priorly. No one else to gets to have any, he’s decided.

 

“You really gonna have the whole thing?” Bucky asks, once Steve settles back down on the couch and starts glaring at Sam while shoving spoonfuls of soup in his mouth.

 

Without breaking eye-contact, he replies, “Absolutely.”

 

Sam, however, seems to not want to be part of his bullshit, as usual, as he’s already putting his bag back on and standing up. Coward.

 

“You’re running away,” Steve states, earning him a look that’s clearly hostile, “Get back here. I’m gonna roast your ass to crisps.”

 

“As much as I would like to fry you on a grill, I’ve got shit to do and places to be, Rogers.” Sam retorts, putting his shoes back on, “Besides, I was just here to check up on you. And you’ve got _great_ company already, who’s gonna make sure you don’t die.”

 

“I’m not gonna die.” Steve repeats, though deep in his heart, he really hopes he does, right this moment, because Sam’s leaving, which means it’s back to being alone with Bucky and his own thoughts. Again.

 

“Sure you won’t.” Sam grins, knowing exactly what turmoil he’s leaving Steve behind in, and then, as he ambles over to the door, “Remember what we discussed last week, because I’m not gonna leave you alone about it!”

 

Steve sputters—he’d been trying to repress the memory of the plan of action they’d discussed that day, so he could genuinely say he doesn’t remember it—and mumbles a _bye_ he’s not sure Sam even heard.

 

 

 **steve:** _I hate you. so fucking much._

 **sam:** _I know_

 **sam:** _;)_

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

Things go a bit smoother, from there on. Steve recovers fairly quickly—whether it's because his immune system actually improved, or because Bucky was keeping check on him everyday, he doesn’t know—and actually gets his Christmas shopping done on time, even if it was a pain in the ass, like every other year.

 

Steve, as thanks for embarrassing him immensely in his own house constantly, gets Sam a falcon plush toy, based on his legendary _I love birds so goddamn much_ drunk speech from April. Sam almost kicks the shit out of him, but doesn’t, once Steve hands him the actual, genuine gift—a huge box of chocolates that may or may not have been the topic of one of Sam’s other famed speeches. In return, he gets the set of charcoal pencils he saw and fell in love with this one time two years ago, and promptly forgot about, like the dumbass he is. For the first time in a million years, they share a hug in which _kick me_ post-its are not slapped on each other’s backs.

 

For Natasha, he manages to get his hands on a fancy and weirdly shiny knife for her collection (which is, somehow, an actual thing, and just further promotes his belief that she's actually a spy in disguise). She gets him an America-themed scarf, fully decked out in red, white, and blue, because apparently she cares about him and doesn't want him to freeze to death. He gets Bruce several planners, all personalized, and receives one of the books he'd found but never bought during his weird electronics phase. He hands Peggy a bundle of sketches he'd made—mostly of her, some with the others, too—ranging from the first year of high school to the end of university. She and Angie bake him chocolate chip cookies, exactly how he likes them. He buys Scott a few games for the PS4, and Cassie an encyclopedia of ants, because she's obsessed with them for reasons he'll never understand. Scott builds him a multi-purpose stylus that's _unlike anything on the market_ , and has to stop his daughter from giving Steve a jar of the bugs she's caught.

 

He does have a gift for Bucky, of course, like the Good (Pining) Samaritan he is, but he isn’t sure how to approach suddenly giving it to him out of nowhere. Luckily, the man himself shows up on his doorstep, brandishing a full collection of his personal recipes—categorized, and everything—and practically forcing Steve to take it (not that Steve wouldn't have accepted it, seeing as 1) Bucky had probably spent a while on it, and 2) he’s emotionally committed to taking anything Bucky gives him). Bucky's initial reaction to Steve's gift had been a tad bit unnerving, with his mouth gaping wide open in either admiration or dismay as he stared at the sketch of Brooklyn Steve had spent a perfectly acceptable time working on, heavily motivated by the fact that they'd both spent their childhoods there. But then the words _holy shit, you made this?_ and _I'm getting this framed_ come tumbling out his mouth, and Steve immediately feels giddiness washing over him, a proud grin on his face.

 

He hopes that improved whatever infinitesimal chances he had with Bucky, somehow. Probably not, though.

 

 

With his mom having week-long freedom for the holidays, Steve picks her up from Staten Island and takes her around all of New York to see the festive lighting and the snow. They catch up as they walk down the busy streets, half-window-shopping and half-actual-shopping. Sarah tells Steve about her current round of treatments and therapies, and Peggy's recent visits, and asks him about the whole neighbor situation he'd been complaining about a month back. Steve doesn't exactly tell her what's been going on with Bucky the entirety of December.

 

“Really, mom, we're fine now.” Steve says, and Sarah gives him the look of disbelief, before going back to choosing between two scarves that look exactly the same.

 

The week goes by fairly fast, and before Steve knows it, his mom is back at the hospital, and he's back in Manhattan. Natasha, like the wild spirit she is, somehow plans an entire New Year's Eve party in an afternoon, and insists that Steve has to show up, preferably with someone in tow after five lonely years. He lets her down gently, telling her that him bringing a plus-one that's not someone he's paid to come with him is probably not going to happen for another five years, definitely. She grunts over the line, telling Steve he should get together with the tall, dark, (questionably) handsome mystery friend she's been telling him about for the past few months already.

 

Steve's not really interested, for completely legitimate reasons, and he tells her so, but without actually mentioning said reasons. He's kept Natasha out of the loop with the whole Bucky situation for this long now, and he's certainly not going to drop this on her now. He doesn't _actually_ have a death wish, thanks.

 

“You're a sad, sad man, Rogers.” she repeats for what is probably the fifth time in the same conversation, ticking Steve's name in her party list and moving onto her next victim.

 

“Yeah, I know.” he sighs, and hangs up.

 

 

Steve's spending the last afternoon of the year at Sam's, rewatching the original Home Alone despite his friend's protests of _it's not Christmas anymore_ , _damn,_ blissfully ignoring everything around him, when Sam brings up the dreaded topic again.

 

“You should invite your boy tonight.” Sam tells him, as he actually picks an outfit for the party, unlike Steve, who's adamant about showing up in the hoodie and slacks he's wearing currently.

 

Steve doesn't even take his eyes off the T.V. screen to glare at Sam this time, “Nope.”

 

“No, seriously. It would make for a good second date, trust me.” Sam emerges from his bedroom, and holds up two shirts in front of Steve, “Which one's better?”

 

“Blue, definitely.” Steve says, still not looking away from the movie, “What was our first date?”

 

“That time, like, two weeks ago, where he was taking care of you, and I'd somehow stumbled upon the most domestic bullshit ever?” Sam blocks his view with his clothes, “I'm not even holding a blue shirt, asshole.”

 

Steve shoves the garments out of his face, “These are both horrible. And I don't think you know what a date is.”

 

“Right, and I don't need to, 'cause you two are practically married already.” Sam points out. Steve groans and covers his face with his arm. “Just pick one, damn.”

 

“Uh, this one,” he blindly clutches a shirt, looking at his random choice to find it's actually the worse of the two, “Should I really ask him?”

 

“Thanks.” Sam walks off, “You could, unless you're chicken.”

 

“Ugh,” he says, and stares soulfully at his phone, actually contemplating going back to his apartment and asking Bucky. He's been putting off telling him about the whole _I'm actually the same Steve you've been texting since October_ thing, and the longer it goes by, the worse he feels about it. He's pretty sure telling him at this point would just earn him a sour look and a well-deserved ass-kicking. “Nah.”

 

Sam imitates a chicken from his spot in his room, where he knows Steve can't chuck a remote at him. He comes back a few minutes later, turning off the T.V. and nudging Steve, “Come on, if you're not going to ask Mister Crush, then you might as well be useful and help Nat set up.”

 

Steve gets up begrudgingly, carrying the drinks Sam tells him to, and mumbles about being designated muscle all the way on their ride to Natasha's house in Queens.

 

 

“Aren’t you going to put those away?” Steve asks, as he moves away the furniture in the living room. He’s talking about the Christmas decorations still littering the place in general, but does so staring at the several twigs of very fake mistletoe stuck to the ceiling.

 

“Nah.” says Natasha, arranging the drinks in the other room, “Guess some people could still use the help, getting a New Year’s kiss.”

 

Steve feels personally attacked. He gives the wall that Natasha’s hiding behind a dirty look.

 

“Don’t give me that, Steve.” Natasha says, still in the other room, “It’s for your own good, trust me.”

 

“And for the good of her wallet,” Sam chimes in, “She’s going to be twenty dollars richer if you give anyone a smacker and she finally wins our annual bet today for the first time in four years. Which is _not_ happening, by the way.”

 

“You guys are betting on me. Of _course_ you are.” Steve remarks, not even surprised that his two friends have been doing that, and that, too, for the past four years without him knowing, apparently. “And you know what, Sam, just to make you lose, I’ll maybe consider going back to some stranger’s house and kissing the fuck out of them.”

 

“Yes, Steve! Thank you!” exclaims Natasha, at the same time that Sam yells, “Don’t you dare, Rogers!”

 

“I hate both of you.” Steve declares, still lamenting over the fact that Peggy, Bruce, and Scott decided not to show up, being busy with soon-to-be in-laws, groundbreaking research, and family, respectively. He’d do anything to listen to marriage mumbo jumbo, or science mumbo jumbo, or parenting mumbo jumbo right now, instead of having to awkwardly sit around people he doesn’t know for God-knows-how-long. “When do I get to leave?”

 

“You don’t.” Natasha says, matter-of-factly, coming into the living room with a tower of plastic cups. “I finally got some _special_ _friends_ to show up today. If you leave without meeting them, I’ll kill you myself.”

 

“Please spare me.” Steve says, wondering who the hell these _friends_ Natasha’s talking about are. She tends to be pretty secretive, which, again, just adds to Steve’s theory that she’s some kind of spy. He and Sam had somehow gone two years into their friendship with her without even knowing she has a boyfriend, and to date they still don’t know anything about said boyfriend, not even his name. If Steve hadn’t managed to catch a glance of the blond guy on Natasha’s lockscreen once, he would’ve been convinced she was just making it all up to fuck with them. The only times Steve remembers her actively mentioning her friends that aren’t already in his circle are— “Wait, mystery guy included?”

 

That makes Natasha think, for a few seconds. “Mystery guy included.”

 

“Oh,” he says. Well, that’s one person that could help him spoil Sam’s winning streak, maybe. Not that Steve really wants to go around kissing some stranger, but he doesn’t have a chance with anyone else, anyway, and he really just needs to see Sam lose. From across the room, Sam gives him the _you wouldn’t fucking dare_ look, which actually makes Steve reconsider his plan, because Sam knows things and secrets that Natasha doesn’t, and if she finds out, he’s very, _very_ dead.

 

He keeps his mouth shut and tries not to think about Bucky. He should really just tell him about the whole virtual alter-ego thing and get it over with before the new year starts, but the more he contemplates it, the more he’s convinced doing that is just going to ruin whatever they have between them. Bucky finding out that his Best Guy Steve in reality is a complete human disaster and also a huge liar would _probably_ not lead to very good things. Despite all that, however, he just really wants to get it out of the way, mostly just so he stops feeling guilty every time he even sees Bucky’s name in his contacts.

 

Whatever, he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it, right?

 

Right.

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

“Right, so then I ask her: _Are you really sure this is safe for the kids?_  'Cause she's Darcy and I wouldn't trust her with plastic fuckin’ cacti. And she goes all _of course it is_ , and pours in the blood red concoction into my carefully-crafted volcano— which I worked very hard on, by the way.” Steve tells the group at the table, regardless of whether or not they're actually listening. He's drunk as shit (typical), and he knows at least Sam is listening to him. He doesn't care about anything else. “So, of course, like the tragedy waiting to happen, the whole thing explodes. Except, somehow, it's aiming right at me like a goddamn bazooka.” Someone laughs, at that. Steve can't tell who, but he appreciates them. “It took me two whole months to get my clothes to look like I hadn't murdered someone wearing 'em. I also really hope the school fired Darcy, for completely unrelated reasons.”

 

“Steve, how in the hell are you alive right now?” the woman with her hair in a bun asks—Steve thinks her name is Marissa, or Maria, or something like that—and it's the most motherly tone he's ever heard out of a drunk person. He's pretty sure she's been here since the first unfortunate story he's been telling.

 

He shrugs, “I really wish I knew.”

 

The party's going well, he thinks, but he's not really one to be judging anything, because he went off and got smashed in the first thirty minutes, and now all he's doing is oversharing his life to strangers and spontaneously giggling like a weirdo.

 

Natasha has some very eccentric friends, he finds very quickly. So far, he's talked to a guy who’s just as obsessed with the Captain America books as he is (leading to a very, very long discussion about just what in the world happened to the Red Skull after the whole Tesseract thing), a Norwegian guy that speaks in exclusively Shakespearean, for some reason, said Norwegian guy's probably-serial-killer brother, and a grey-haired guy who's somehow jumping from one corner of Natasha's house to another in seconds, just to name a few.

 

He's decided he likes her friends, but he's yet to have an encounter with the brunette she wouldn't stop pestering him about. He's curious, obviously, and now that his mind isn't stuck on Bucky-mode permanently, he's allowed to wonder who the mystery man is and how difficult it would be to get said man to give him a fake kiss, or something. He just really wants to see Sam cough up those twenty dollars.

 

He's still avoiding the mistletoes on the ceiling, though, when he could very well be using them to his advantage if he really does want Sam to lose.

 

He doesn't think too hard about it.

 

 

 _It's all going too well_ , thinks drunk Steve, an hour and a half into the party. He's getting along with everyone, he hasn't thrown up on Natasha's couch, like last time, hasn’t gotten into a fight, like the time before that, and he's somehow managed to learn the exact trajectory he needs to take to avoid every single cursed plant of intimacy hanging over him. Something's coming. He doesn't know what, but something's coming. His drunk intuition is the world's most trustworthy senses, it's been scientifically proven.

 

He's right, as always, he finds a while later, when he turns around in the middle of Carol's great tale about her punching a Nazi to get a refill for his drink to see the worst possible thing.

 

There, five feet away from him, talking to someone who looks exactly like Tony Fucking Stark, is Bucky Fucking Barnes.

 

“What the fuck,” he says. If he was just a bit more shocked, he probably would've dropped his empty cup, and if he was just a bit more sober, he probably would’ve spontaneously burst into flames. Somehow, he’d seen this coming. How had he seen coming? Maybe he really  _is_ a psychic.

 

His brain refreshes the facts.

  1. Natasha knows Bucky.
  2. He's her tall, dark, (definitely) handsome friend, that she's been trying to set him up for months.
  3. He's the guy Steve's been trying to set _himself_ up with for a month.
  4. He's the guy Steve's been unnecessarily lying to for a month.



 

Steve feels the inexplicable urge to get the fuck out of there.

 

“Steve?” Bucky looks back at him, and Steve's legs are screaming _run, you idiot, fucking run_ , but of course, he just stays frozen in place, his entire body fixated into that one spot.

 

“Uh,” he tries, and _great_ , his mouth's decided to malfunction, too. Before he can do anything else, though, like say something stupid and make a fool of himself in front of his crush and the very talented Tony Stark cosplayer he was talking to, he's unexpectedly dragged off by someone, not even giving him enough time to send a distraught look Sam's way.

 

“Hey.” says his blond captor, “You're Steve, right?”

 

It takes his brain a good few seconds to process everything, but he does get somewhere, eventually. “You're Natasha's boyfriend.”

 

“That, I am. I'm Clint.” he says, grinning, and tugs Steve along with his arm around Steve's neck. “She tell you 'bout me?”

 

“Not really.” he admits, and Clint raises an eyebrow. “I just kind of figured it out.”

 

“Ah. The spy type, I see.” he remarks, “Gotta love 'em, right?”

 

“Um,” Steve tries, again, and fails miserably, as Clint hauls the two of them to the opposite part of the house, where he spots a specific head of red hair, peeking through the crowd to look for someone.

 

Natasha's eyes land on Clint, and she breaks out into a grin. Steve doesn't think he's ever seen her smile like that. He wished a particular _someone else_ would look at him like that, but that's just asking for too much.

 

 

“Can I go home now?” asks Steve, much later, feeling significantly more sober, but not completely, yet. He gave up on trying to be the drunkest person at the party after meeting Clint. There's nothing that could match that man.

 

He still hasn't seen Bucky, not after that encounter earlier. Natasha has a huge house—Steve has lost himself in it, just once, _that_ big—but the fact that he still hasn't managed to catch a glimpse of his friend is a tad bit worrying.

 

 _Did he leave? Was he even real?_ Steve wonders, _Or, wait, is he avoiding me?_

 

He doesn't exactly want to know the answer to the latter.

 

“Come on, it's _thirty minutes_ to the countdown.” Natasha replies, “Just stay for that, and then I'll let you go.”

 

“Okay.” Steve says, and opens his texts.

 

 **steve:** _are you in condition to drive us back_

 **sam:** _yeah, havent drank all night. you need 2 go?_

 **steve:** _after the countdown. please._

 **sam:** _okay_

 

 

He gets up from the floor, because as much as he's enjoying sitting in front of the T.V., listening to everyone else talking over the people on screen, he really needs another glass of water and some of Natasha's chocolate.

 

Steve pads over to the kitchen, filling a cup of water and drinking it quickly, before sneakily rummaging in the fridge for the secret stash of confectionery he _knows_ she keeps.

 

He's feeling emotionally compromised, okay? He needs this. He's allowed to steal chocolate.

 

“Hey.” says a voice behind him, and Steve almost jumps ten feet into the air. He does shriek, though, kind of.

 

“Holy shit.” he breathes—his mouth half-stuffed with some weird Russian chocolate he didn't bother checking the packaging for—and turns around. “You scared the hell out of me.”

 

“Sorry.” says Bucky, who's _not_ avoiding him, apparently. _Yay_ , Steve thinks, for barely a second, before realizing he's alone in the room with him.

 

He's not sober enough for this.

 

“Didn't know you know Natasha.” Steve throws out, because small talk works, and he's going to need to use it if he wants to make it out of this alive.

 

“I didn't know you know her, either.” he says, filling his own cup with water. “She’s really discreet about all this, though, so, _eh_.”

 

“Right.” Steve nods, and eats more chocolate, because he's all out of small talk topics, and there's nothing else he can do.

 

“Good thing you're here, honestly.” Bucky walks over the fridge, “I barely know anyone, and Tony won't shut up about his damn intern. I still don't know how I managed to get away from him.”

 

“That's not someone doing a really good impression of Tony Stark?” Steve asks.

 

“Nah, but now that you say that, I really wish it was.” Bucky grumbles, “At least he'd have something interesting to talk about, for once.”

 

Steve snickers, and that's not good, because it puts him back in the drunk mood. The drunk mood is never, never good.

 

“I have to tell you something,” slips from his mouth, after a moment, and _oh shit, oh fuck, what are you doing Steve, you goddamn moron_ —

 

“Okay.” Bucky says and leans against the wall, waiting expectantly.

 

Great, now he can't even back out of this. He's driven himself into a corner, and he honestly can't blame anyone but himself.

 

 _It's going to be fine_ , he tells himself, _just tell him you're the Text Steve, and have been since the beginning, and have also known for a month now, but haven't found the courage to talk about because you're an insecure idiot who's scared he won't like you as much in real life. He'll probably kill you for all that, but it's fine. It's_ fine _._

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

 _Here goes nothing, I guess_.

 

 

“I kind of really like you?” Steve says, and what the fuck, _where did that come from?_ That's not what he was supposed to say. That’s not even close to the thing he was supposed to say.

 

Shit.

 

Damn.

 

_Fuck._

 

_Shit—_

 

(He's running out of swears, can you tell?)

 

“And, well, I wasn't exactly supposed to tell you that, because you probably don't swing that way, or don't like me, even if you do, which is— which is fine.” he says, and it's a miracle he barely fumbles, because he’s still kind of drunk, and he's shaking, now, not just from the cold. He doesn’t even know why he's trying to salvage, what, this odd _friendship_ that's he's about lose within the next minute, anyway. There's obviously no way he gets to keep this, or gets to have more.

 

It's time to stare at the floor, he decides.

 

“What I _was_ supposed to tell you, though, and should have ages ago, is that—” he takes a second deep breath. _Here goes the actual nothing_. “I’m Steve, um, the one you've been texting for the past two months. And I did want to tell you sooner, I swear I did, but I just, I don't know. I don't— I was scared, still am. You probably don't like me a lot as,” he gestures at himself, eyes closed, “this. Most people don't, anyway. And, I don't know, I thought I'd let you down, ruin your expectations, and stuff. Which, I guess I already did by lying about all this all this time. I— God, Bucky, I'm— I'm sorry. I should've told you earlier, I—”

 

He looks up again.

 

Bucky's frowning, with his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

 

He looks… angry? Disappointed? Betrayed?

 

He looks _not_ happy. There.

 

Steve take that as his cue to leave, just like he'd expected, already having planned his exit stage left amidst this mess of a conversation. “I need to go.”

 

He makes a run for it, avoiding the guests’ curious glances and pushing past them to get to the door. He doesn't even bother going to Sam, or informing anyone else, because he's got to leave, and he's got to do that _now_.

 

He ignores whoever calls out “Steve, wait!”, and heads out, making his getaway onto the main street to hail himself a cab and get the fuck home.

 

 

Well, Steve's fucked up, and he's well aware, but at least he still has Natasha's chocolate, right?

 

Oh, who is he kidding? He's going to need ice cream to heal from this trainwreck of a day. A lot of it.

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

 **sam:** _dude where did u go_

 **sam:** _nat said she saw u leave._

 **sam:** _are u home?_

 **sam:** _steve????_

 **sam:** _pick up my calls you big dumb idiot_

 **sam:** _STEVE!!!!!! PICK UP_

 **sam:** _ur so stupid jfc i can't ...... deal w ur dumb drama urself i’m peacing out_

 

Steve groans at the latest message being previewed in his notifications, and puts his phone back on the coffee table with its screen downwards, like he has been the past God-knows-how-many minutes. He’s _really_ appreciating the reminders of his mistakes, but can’t muster up the energy to do anything besides staring at said reminders in the darkness of his living room.

 

Not unlike many other unfortunate events in his life, Steve is currently at an absolute loss on what to do. He’s tried sleeping, but apparently his body’s not tired enough to pass out yet, though he feels tired to his absolute core. He’s tried eating, but he’s all out of ice cream (great, the _one_ _time_ ), and the thought of eating anything else just feels wrong. Steve only eats ice cream when he’s sad, it’s a law of the universe. He’s made several trips to the washroom by now, so he’s sober, at least. Even if he hadn’t done that, his heart-to-heart earlier would’ve definitely done that for him.

 

Steve just really wants to talk to Peggy, because she isn’t as mean as his other friends when it comes to his disaster love life (but still mean other times) and she always knows what to say. He’d tried calling her, on his way home in the cab, but she hadn’t picked up. Maybe it was for the better, because a breakdown may have been involved if she had, and Steve doesn’t want to subject a poor, tired driver to that. She’d called back later, of course, but by then Steve had already accepted his emotional death and lied down on the sofa as his coffin.

 

Now he’s resorted to watching the countdown, because it’s _something_. He might as well.

 

 

After what feels like literal years but is actually three minutes in reality, he has the brilliant idea of compiling a resolution list. Not that he ever follows them—because he hates commitments and being a responsible, self-preserving human being—but it would make him feel like a functional adult for the one week he’s going to last following the list, and give him a way to entertain himself right now.

 

 _Okay_ , Steve tells himself, _here goes_.

  1. Do not leave the house, ever. Full stop. The outside world is cruel and scary. (achievable beyond one week)
  2. buy some damn ice cream. ~~cookies and cream again maybe?~~ scratch that mango is better. buy mango
  3. Give up on love. Its like hot wax and trying to get into it is like is dipping your hand in said wax. painful. may scar you for life
  4. art??? still need money to buy ice cream
  5. Never open the door. Even if its the Devil himself offering you a restart on life from age thirteen onwards in exchange for your soul. ~~it is a good offer though~~
  6. collect enough money to fuck everything and move permanently to ~~russia~~ switzerland (nat would find me in russia dont ask how)
  7. actually try to fix my life a little? (unrealistic, impossible)
  8. open an ice cream shop in switzerland. eat all the ice cream myself



 

He's halfway through writing point nine— _stop fucking think about him, dumb, desperate fool_ —when the doorbell rings, echoing like a death knell through his apartment. He almost considers not getting it, because he's practically stuck to the couch, like tongue to cold metal, and he knows _exactly_ who's outside, waiting for him.

 

Opening the door would be direct violation of resolution number five (and number three, to some degree), but Steve glances at the T.V., which announces that there's thirty seconds until the new year, and concludes that he can't violate new year resolutions if it's not the new year yet.

 

He's out of things to say, anyway. Now there's no way he can make it worse than what he already left it to be.

 

 

He opens the door, and this time Steve doesn't even look at what the other is wearing or go on for words about how effortlessly good he looks, because he's set his gaze on the floor, and he's never, ever looking up.

 

He's ready to say _I’m so sorry_ like a recorder on repeat, because that's honestly the least he can do after being such a gigantic asshole, not knowing how to do anything else—and he even manages to get out the first “Sorry.”, his voice weak and unsteady—before he's pulled forward by the collar of his hoodie rashly, putting him face-to-face with Bucky.

 

It's here, the ass-kicking he deserves. He's accepted his fate and the broken bones that are about to follow.

 

This is fine.

 

“Are you sober?” asks Bucky, an odd question for the threatening tone he's using.

 

Steve nods wordlessly. This is a weird entry into a to-be-beating. He'd expected a direct punch to the nose, or something, but he'll take this. It's a few sacred, painless seconds, after all.

 

Bucky looks his face over, analyzing Steve's eyes to find out if he's being honest or not, which he definitely should be doing, because Steve can't be trusted, ever. Their foreheads are almost touching—again, like that one other time he'd gotten drunk and done something utterly idiotic, though he'd gotten a hug that time—and Steve has to continually remind himself to keep breathing.

 

It's the anticipation killing him, obviously.

 

His friend—are they still friends, really—stares at him a bit longer, thinking hard about something, probably something like the best way to murder Steve and get away with it. Steve decides on the name of his autobiography in that short moment: _The Accidental Text That Ruined My Life, and Other Related Unfortunate Events._ He'll write it in the afterlife.

 

Bucky takes a breath—it’s shaky, and _wow_ , no one's ever been _nervous_ to beat him up before—and tugs Steve towards himself just a bit more.

 

“I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?” he says.

 

 

 _What_ , Steve thinks, then, _the absolute fuck_?

 

 

“Okay,” he replies, because  _goddammit_ , that's the one thing he gets to agree to, even if he's going to face an unknown end afterwards. It'll be completely, two-hundred-percent worth it, he tells his mind. He's sure of it.

 

Bucky leans in, closing his eyes, and Steve mimics him, because he honestly doesn't know what else to do. Their lips meet, and right, this is _definitely_ a thing that's happening now, not some crazy fever dream that his subconscious is conjuring up as a defense mechanism. Steve's heart condition hasn't existed since he hit fifteen, but with the rate his chest is pounding, he might almost develop cardiac arrhythmia.

 

Then Bucky lets go of the hoodie's collar, the luckless thing, and wraps his right hand around Steve's neck, to which he does not respond in _any_ way, thank you very much. Steve reaches out to grasp the other's arm, because he's jittery as all hell, and that's as good as any a thing to do right now. The whole _fireworks in his heart_ thing is completely mutually exclusive from the actual, literal fireworks blaring outside. At least he _thinks_ it is.

 

 

This—whatever _this_ is—goes on for exactly 27 seconds. Not that Steve was counting, or anything. They break apart eventually, much to Steve's dismay, and he rests his head on Bucky's shoulder. He's going to need a solid hour for his brain to come back online.

 

“For the record, it's pretty rude to run away mid-conversation.” Bucky starts, wrapping his arms around Steve now, “And just so you know, I kind of really like you too.”

 

To this, Steve immediately thinks _bullshit_ , because he'd seen Bucky's reaction, the hurt eyes and furrowed brows. That was the exact opposite of how he'd expect someone to convey _hey I like you too_. He doesn't look up, though, just keeps his head where it is. “You were angry, though.”

 

“Yeah, for, like, _five seconds_.” he replies, “Because I realized we could've been doing this for two months, and we weren't. Then _someone_ decided to bolt before I realized starting now isn't any worse.”

 

“Sorry,” mutters Steve, who's just mostly surprised Bucky isn't taking this whole thing as badly as Steve thought he would. “So, you're not mad?”

 

“I'm not. Hey, come on. Look at me.” Bucky cups Steve’s face with one hand, “I've liked you since the literal second we met, and finding out that you're the same as the guy I've been crushing on for a month before that is the _best_ news I could get. Trust me.”

 

“You're kidding,” Steve blurts out, because he's _got_ to be joking. There's no way he's being honest.

 

“I'm not.” Bucky smiles, “Just kinda kept my distance since I thought you weren't interested, with the whole date with what's-her-face.”

 

“Oh, you mean the date I was forced into because my friends were so tired of me talking about you but not making a move?” Steve deadpans. He really ought to send Sharon a fruit basket, for helping him reach this point in his life. “It was _real_ fun.”

 

That makes Bucky laugh. “Wait, seriously?”

 

“Yeah. Sam even had a whole plan on how to _seduce_ you,” Steve airquotes, “if the whole thing with Sharon didn't work out, whatever that means.”

 

That sends Bucky into a giggling fit, and he has to take a good few seconds to start breathing properly again. “Oh, Wilson's great. What would that even involve? You pretending to fall sick again, so I'd show up to care of you?”

 

“Shut up.” Steve huffs, pulling Bucky inside and closing the front door behind. He doesn't deny it though, because that definitely _is_ what he would do. Sam would no doubt make him do that.

 

“It _was_ pretty fun, but I think we should start with coffee next time.” he winks, dragging them both to the couch where Steve had planned to hibernate for the rest of his life not two minutes ago.

 

That makes Steve blush redder than any goddamn tomato. He really can't wrap his head around this. The only possible explanation he believes in is that he's died and gone to heaven, somehow. That would explain the _actual_ angel next to him.

 

 

He flops onto the sofa, spending a moment staring at their entwined hands, before looking back up at Bucky. “You’re not mad.”

 

“Nope.” he grins. “Because, one, I like your smart ass, a _lot_ , and two, it would be very hypocritical of me, considering I'm supposed to be telling you something too.”

 

“Uh, huh.” Steve wonders if what Bucky has to say would outrank his own two month long melodrama. “Well, are you going to tell me?”

 

“I'll have to kill you, if I do.” Bucky jests, “Seriously, though, I don't think you can handle it.”

 

Steve pouts. It's true that Steve tends to overreact to any news, good or bad, but _still_. “I can handle it.”

 

“Really? Okay, then. Don't freak out.” Bucky takes a deep breath, and Steve braces himself for whatever he's about to hear. “I'm J. B. B.”

 

Steve does  _not_ freak out, obviously, just lets out a dramatic gasp that is _completely_ and _intentionally_ exaggerated, “ _No_.”

 

“ _Yes_.” the other man returns, just as exaggerated, “Full name's James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky comes from the Buchanan part.”

 

“No,” Steve says, again, like repeating it would make it less real. “You're lying, right? Tell me you're lying.”

 

“Kinda wish I was, because that would be hilarious, and also because I _hate_ having this talk, but, no, I'm not lying.” Bucky pulls out his phone, typing something in, before showing the screen to Steve, “You can even ask Tony. I'll call him, if you want.”

 

Steve sees the contact for actual Tony Stark (saved as _iron fucker [don't respond]_ ), with a photo that's probably cringeworthy enough to ruin the billionaire's sophisticated reputation. Steve is absolutely not trying to learn every digit of his number, before he realizes something else. “I have a shrine of you.”

 

Look, he doesn't usually get embarrassed about his book shrine—tucked carefully away in a tiny corner of his room—because he's worked on it for _years_ , and he's proud of it, but grasping the fact that the author of those books is now aware of it makes him want to burn the whole thing down. He really just might, after all this.

 

“You do.” Bucky affirms the fact, pressing a quick kiss to Steve's cheek that leaves him flushing, “I think it's really cute.”

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Steve whines, because none of this makes sense, and his brain currently feels like the physical embodiment of a thousand question marks and a singular exclamation mark. He leans his head on Bucky's shoulder, rethinking his entire existence.

 

“You're taking this better than I thought.” remarks Bucky, “Most people would just start screaming and asking me for a photo, and stuff.”

 

“Don't need a photo when I have you right here.” Steve mumbles, and when he looks back up, he can see Bucky blush, for a turn. Now _that's_ something. “You haven't told a lot people, then?”

 

“Not exactly. It's just family, close friends, and now you.” he responds, looking down at his left hand, “I don't think the people would like to find out their favorite author isn't all perfect, you know?”

 

“No one is. Expecting that is just unrealistic.” Steve says softly, knowing the struggle of trying to be flawless constantly, out of fear of disappointing others. He takes Bucky's other hand in his own. “It’s kind of an honor to know this, but I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

 

“Yeah, well, you're one of the only few people who looked at this damn arm and didn't start treating me differently because of it.” Bucky smiles, all million-watt and blinding. Steve also knows the feeling of being treated differently because of his disabilities, though it had stopped recently, with people giving him one glance and assuming he's completely healthy, which couldn't be further from the truth.

 

“The ones doing that are just assholes, then.” declares Steve, “Besides, I think the arm's pretty, and cool, and pretty cool.”

 

Bucky flushes a tad bit more, and Steve feels like he's been given access to a power he legally shouldn't be allowed to use. He's going to keep using it, though, of course, for very obvious reasons.

 

“That's, um, a first.” Bucky looks down at his hands, “Pretty, huh?”

 

“Yep.” Steve says. He has plenty of questions to ask, about the arm, about Bucky's life in general, but he's going to start with the most important: “Can you fry an egg on it?”

 

Bucky blinks, snorts, and falls into a second giggling fit. “Seriously? That's what you want to know?”

 

“Yeah!” Steve asserts, defensively, “I don't want to force you into serious question territory.”

 

“What the hell, you sure you aren't an angel?” Bucky asks, “As for your question, I'm not really sure. I would assume it can, since it's metal and whatnot, but that's just in theory. I'd need to test that.”

 

“Do _not_ experiment in my house.” he announces, “My kitchen has seen enough already.”

 

“Steve, I would _never_.” Bucky says, grinning cheekily, in the tone which means he absolutely _would_.

 

Steve glares at him, “You better not, jerk.”

 

“You asked.” Bucky shrugs, smirking, and leans in for what Steve hopes and assumes is another kiss, before they're interrupted by a phone ringing.

 

Bucky pulls out said phone from his pocket, glowering at it like the thing has personally offended him, somehow, but his expression shifts when he sees the contact. He gestures for Steve to get closer, putting a finger over his lips, and picks up.

 

 

“You know why I'm calling.” says Rebecca, his sister, looking absolutely furious for reasons Steve doesn't know. He shifts just enough that he's out of frame, but he can still see her.

 

Bucky hums, “To wish me a happy New Year?”

 

“ _Happy New Year_ , shithead.” she grumbles.

 

“You too, Becs.” he replies. Steve tries not to laugh. “So, what's the actual occasion?”

 

“You know, only the event I've been planning for literal months?” Rebecca says, “I've got just two days left, so, _please_ , my dearest brother, tell me if you're bringing a plus-one or not.”

 

Bucky pretends to think.

 

“Oh, fuck you.” she sighs, “I'm taking away your spot too. You deserve this.”

 

“Wait, actually,” Bucky smiles broadly, pulling Steve towards him, “I _might_ bring someone.”

 

“Oh, my God. Is that— Bucky, did you _kidnap_ him?” Rebecca asks, “Whoever you are, blink once if you're unsafe, blink twice if I should call the police—”

 

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Bucky interrupts impassively. “Becca, this is Steve. Steve, Becca.”

 

Steve simply waves awkwardly, “Hi.”

 

“The famous Steve that my brother wouldn't shut up about for the past seventy-something days?” she says, “Wow, hi. I'm so sorry about Bucky.”

 

“Eh, I'm sorry about him, too. Listening to things about me probably wasn't really fun.” he responds.

 

“Oh, it was _super_ fun, trust me.” Rebecca winks. “I kept the drunk poems, and everything.”

 

Bucky groans, shoving his tinted face in his hands, “What is this? An alliance against me?”

 

“Absolutely.” she declares, “So, Steve, you're coming? It's just a relative's engagement party, nothing serious.”

 

“Shit, I didn't even ask you.” Bucky looks up suddenly, somewhat panicked, “But, uh, do you want to? Go, I mean, with me. You don't have to.”

 

“No, no, it's fine. I'd love to be there.” Steve smiles.

 

“Cool.” Bucky says, trying to sound nonchalant, but there's a hint of a smile on his face too.

 

“Promposal of the year, guys. I don't ever think I've seen you that flustered, mister I'm-totally-suave.” Rebecca slow claps, “Anyways, that's final then. You two better show up, or I'll fly to New York just to drag you both here myself.”

 

“Yes, ma'am.” says Steve, at the same time as Bucky grumbles, “Yeah, yeah.”

 

“Thank fucking God this is over.” she sighs, “Good night.”

 

“Night, Becs.” Bucky says, and hangs up.

 

 

“Suave, huh?” Steve raises an eyebrow, “Weird how I haven't seen that yet.”

 

“What do you mean?” Bucky turns, and props his elbow on the back of the couch, “I'm _totally_ charming.”

 

“Sure, you are.” he snickers, “Getting locked out of your apartment is very attractive.”

 

“Oh, I'll show you attractive, punk.” Bucky huffs, shoving Steve lightly, “But, in all seriousness, want to go the roof and makeout instead of watching the fireworks?”

 

“Uh, _yeah_.” Steve says, and before he can get anything else out, Bucky's up and hauling the two of them along enthusiastically.

 

 

 _It's going to be a great year_ , Steve thinks, as he ignores the colorful explosions above him in favor of looking at Bucky's bright smile.

 

❅     ❅     ❅

 

 **steve:** [Attached image: img_010119_001714.jpeg (1.08 MB)]

 **scott:** _OMG is that him??_

 **natasha:** _GO STEVE!!! HELL YEAH_

 **sam:** _GOD FUCKING DAMN IT MY $20_

 **sam:** _STEVE WHY_

 **peggy:** _I knew you could do it :)_

 **bruce:** _wait. hold up_

 **bruce:** _whos that_

 **bruce:** _why is steve kissing him_

 **bruce:** _just what in the hell am I missing here_

 **sam:** _bruce buddy u might wanna sit down fr this 1_

 **natasha:** _yeah its a long, long story_

 **scott:** _Once upon a time..._

 **bruce:** _…_

 **bruce:**   _remind me to never disappear for a month ever again_

 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is appreciated (and so are kudos and comments of validation)!
> 
> let me know if there's any typos/grammatical mistakes/formatting errors i forgot to fix pls


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